


Find The Sun

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Other - Freeform, Sibcest angst. Homoerotic content aka explicit slash.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2003-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shining One series from Rivendell to Amon Hen. Boromir falls into darkness, but at last finds the sun.</p><p>Warnings: Sibcest angst.  Homoerotic content aka explicit slash.</p><p>Mithril Awards 2004 - Semi-finalist - Best romance or erotica – slash</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On Watch

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

A hard hand jostled his shoulder.

“Boromir. It’s our watch.”

Boromir sat up, rubbed his sore back, and looked at Legolas. “I wish I had never slept in a bed in Rivendell, for it makes it that much harder to accustom myself to rocks again.”

Legolas said, “The next time we are in a place of comfort, I’ll remind you to sleep outside on the ground.” Aragorn and Frodo, their watch finished, laughed.

“Rocks or no, I’ll be able to drop off,” Gimli said gruffly, and they stopped talking.

It was the fellowship’s third day out from Rivendell, and, except for Legolas, they were tired and cold. They marched at night, sleeping -- or trying to sleep -- during the day. They ate their supper-breakfast at nightfall, then pushed on for another long dreary trudge in the dark.

A cold wind howled unceasingly. Although Boromir was warmly dressed in a new fur-lined cloak, a gift from Elrond, he shivered incessantly. The Elf was dressed in his light traveling clothes, unaffected by the cold.

“Come, Boromir. We will watch from that ridge. We can put our backs to that rock; there the wind will not be so fierce.”

Boromir followed Legolas up the ridge. It was noon; they would be on watch for two hours, then Gimli and Sam would relieve them, to be followed by Mithrandir and Merry. Pippin would have the “night” off; every five days, each member of the Company had one rest undisturbed by a watch.

Boromir and Legolas settled on the low ridge, twenty feet above their encampment, and sat with their backs to a spur of rock.

The wind was relentless, cutting through Boromir’s clothing as if he were wearing nothing. He clasped his hands together and put them between his thighs. Legolas’s mouth quirked.

“You don’t even need a cloak!” Boromir muttered, yet he smiled, warmed by a memory. In Rivendell, he had learned that the skin of the Elves was not cool as he had thought, but burning. No wonder Legolas had no need for a cloak.

Legolas sang in a low voice. After a few minutes, Boromir’s head drooped. He pulled it back up with an effort.

“Do you know anything other than lullabies?” Boromir asked. “A song of battle, perhaps?’

Legolas shook his head. “I’d rather not sing them. I could tell you tales.”

“Tales of what? Of Mirkwood?”

“Yes, to start.”

“Tell me of the Battle of the Five Armies, then.”

“I wasn’t there. Are you interested in second-hand accounts?”

“Not really,” Boromir admitted. “I know! Tell me of the men!”

“The men?” Legolas looked puzzled.

“In Rivendell, you told me you revenged yourself on men who wooed you as if you were a maiden. You never told me how.”

Legolas grinned. “That should keep you awake, as you barely escaped that fate.”

Boromir smiled, and then his teeth chattered.

“Boromir, do you fear to sit at my side? While on watch with Merry last night, he sat beside me. You are four feet away.”

“I’m not a hobbit!”

“But you _are_ cold. I promise not to do anything you would not approve of.” Legolas’s grin was not reassuring. Another bone-shaking shiver decided him. He slid until he was within half a foot of Legolas. Legolas put an arm over his shoulders and dragged him the last few inches until they were side by side.

“Wait, move your cloak.” Legolas lifted the side of Boromir’s cloak, allowing his torso to touch Boromir.

“You’re a furnace!”

Legolas laughed. “Merry said I was a bonfire.”

Boromir opened his mouth, then closed it. He had been about to say: share my blankets when we sleep. He pictured warming his cold feet on Legolas’s fiery skin and smiled. In their youth in Minas Tirith, Faramir had enjoyed torturing Boromir by waking him up with his cold feet in the winter. He sighed; he would have been happy to have Faramir beside him right then, cold feet and all.

He relaxed as Legolas’s warmth seeped into him. “Thank you,” he said simply. Legolas began his story.

***

**Legolas’s Revenge**

During the first one hundred years of his life in Mirkwood, Legolas ate food and drank wine from the barrels of Men without a care.

Shortly after he passed the century mark, barely an adult by Elven standards, he accompanied his father’s seneschal Talagan to the source of the barrels: Dale, near to Long Lake and the Lonely Mountain. It was before the time of Smaug, when the power of Dale was at its peak, the wealthy township controlling all trade between Men, Dwarves, and Elves in Wilderland.

Legolas had never laid eyes on a Man, for the fortress of his father, King Thranduil, lay hidden deep in the forest. His father gave him the somewhat conflicting instructions to pay close attention, and to stay out of Talagan’s way, while the seneschal fought the endless battle for lower prices, fewer tolls, and better wine. Accompanying them were Thranduil’s butler, to sample the wine on offer, and two chancellors who served as ambassadors to the Men of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor respectively.

Legolas had brought along his finery, for his father wished to emphasize the wealth and power of the Elves of Mirkwood. After they settled into their rooms at Dale’s finest inn, Legolas dressed in the sky blue robe made for the occasion. Then he put on his circlet, which he wore only rarely, letting his hair fall free, with a few braids to keep it out of his eyes.

Talagan joined him in his room, watching Legolas struggle with his circlet, finally giving him a hand. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he looked Legolas over.

“Legolas, how much preparation have I given you for this journey?”

“Too much! We started discussing it six months ago. I know everything there is to know about the industry of Dale and Erebor.”

“Yet you know nothing of Men.”

“Only what I’ve read,” Legolas said, and smiled.

“How is your Westron?”

“Passable,” Legolas said in Westron.

“Do you know the meaning of these words?” Talagan rattled off a few words of Westron. Legolas shook his head.

Talagan laughed. “I predict you will hear them frequently.”

Legolas caught Talagan’s arms. “Do not tease me, seneschal! What do the words mean?”

With a glint in his eye, Talagan said, “My beauty. Lovely one.”

Legolas frowned. “I do not understand.”

“The race of Men has always found the Eldar to be fair. I’m afraid that you will be a sore temptation. Especially in that robe! Who chose that cloth? Sky blue velvet! What were they thinking? Combined with your hair and eyes, it’s fatal!”

Legolas laughed. “You have had your joke, so let us go down and meet the Lord of Dale and his councilors, and no doubt eat some overcooked meat with an indifferent sauce.”

Talagan smiled at Legolas’s words, which echoed the grim description of the food of Men Talagan gave him during their journey to Dale. “Don’t believe me, then.”

“I am not exceptional, Talagan. I look like any other Wood-elf.”

Talagan sighed. “Promise me you will be on your guard to prevent any misunderstandings. Do not accept any invitations that do not include me!”

Legolas patted Talagan’s shoulder. “You are worrying without cause, seneschal. No one will take notice of me.”

***

As soon as they arrived at the town hall, Legolas was made uncomfortable by the stares. Even Gundor, the Lord of Dale, as well as his councilors, gaped at him.

Toasts were taken, then food was served. It was indeed overcooked and tasteless, and Legolas gave Talagan a smile which the seneschal pointedly ignored. Talagan ate every scrap, Legolas noted with amusement. Politics! He managed to get it down as well.

The evening went from bad to worse. After the meal, the people of Dale crowded into the hall, musicians played, and the townsfolk danced. Legolas joined in after a time, and was mortified when applause broke out when he finished his first dance. He hurried back to their table. Talagan, who had washed down the deadly dinner with plenty of wine, was grinning wickedly.

“What a stirring sight that was, Legolas! You picked up those dances quickly.”

Legolas sat next to him and took a long gulp of wine. Its quality greatly surpassed that of the food, fortunately. “How soon can we leave?”

“Not yet! We must let Lord Gundor set the pace.”

***

Before long, the merriment of the townspeople, and the strong Dorwinion wine making the rounds, made Legolas forget his embarrassment, and he wandered through the crowd, eventually encountering Lord Gundor. Legolas saw that Gundor no longer took any special notice of him, and stuck close to him for the rest of the evening. Talagan was gently snoring at their table, the wine finally winning the battle. Observing this, Lord Gundor invited Legolas to his home across the town square.

“My family could not accompany me this evening, for my wife is with child and our three daughters are not yet five years of age. I would be honored to introduce them to you, Prince Legolas.”

Legolas was relieved, for it meant he would escape the avid stares of the people of Dale, and he sincerely wished to meet Gundor’s children. There were no Elvish children in Mirkwood; he was the youngest of his people. When entering the town, he had been enchanted by the children of Men, wondering how such small and whimsical creatures could grow up to be the surly unwashed Men he had seen outside the taverns of the town.

He went to tell Talagan of the invitation, but the seneschal was still snoring. Legolas did not wake him. “He could not have meant to warn me of the Lord of Dale; he knows him,” Legolas thought.

The Lord of Dale left and the hall emptied. Legolas crossed the square, finding the imposing house without difficulty.

Lord Gundor was at his side immediately. “My prince! You are here! Alas, my daughters have already gone to bed, and my wife as well. We can take a turn about the garden if you wish.” He thrust a glass of wine into Legolas’s hand.

They exited the rear of the house. At the back of the long garden, the river that flowed from Erebor tinkled merrily over rocks. Legolas went to it, soothed by the musical sound of the water. Lord Gundor followed him.

“Prince Legolas, are you cold? Would you like my cloak?” Gundor was anxious.

“I’m fine, thank you. I do not feel the cold.”

“But your robe is so . . . light.” Gundor removed his cloak and put it over Legolas’s shoulders. Short of violence, there was no way to dissuade the man. Legolas sighed and looked up at the stars. It was the first moment of peace he had had since entering the town. The water and the glimpse of the stars soothed him.

“You like my garden?” Gundor asked, still with an odd anxious tone.

“This is the loveliest spot I have found in your city, so far.”

“Yes,” Gundor said with fervor. “It has never been lovelier.”

“Then I am glad I am here to see it,” Legolas said politely. He watched Gundor’s face with interest. The man was moving his jaw back and forth in a strange manner, and swallowing as if something was stuck in his throat.

“Are you well?” Legolas asked. He considered hammering on the man’s back.

When Gundor embraced him, Legolas stood still, mystified. Not until the man pressed his lips to Legolas’s face did he understand. He shoved Gundor away, but the man was back and holding him tight immediately.

“My prince! You are like a star come to earth! I am a wealthy man, and I would like nothing better than to give you a small token of my esteem.” He removed a heavy gold chain set with emeralds from around his neck, trying to slip it over Legolas’s head.

“Lord Gundor,” Legolas said, pushing him away. “We have had a misunderstanding. I will not . . .” He paused, not knowing the Westron for what he was about to say. _I will not lie with you!_ He had not yet had a lover; he was scarcely old enough, by the reckoning of the Elves.

Gundor fell on one knee and grasped his hand. “Please, my prince. One kiss! That is all I ask! I will be gentle, I promise!”

“You will be gentle?” Legolas asked, aghast.

“Yes,” Gundor said, springing up at what appeared to be encouragement from Legolas. “I will treat you tenderly. As tenderly as the loveliest maiden, though I have never seen one as beautiful as you.” His eyes were pleading.

“You will be gentle,” Legolas said. What looked like a smile crept onto his face.

Gundor embraced him, encouraged beyond his wildest dreams. “Yes, my prince,” he said in a low voice. “One kiss. That is all I ask; all I deserve! For you are fairer than any jewel . . .”

By the Valar, Legolas thought, the man was annoying! He had resolved on giving Gundor a hearty punch in the stomach; it would no longer suffice. He let Gundor clasp him again, keeping his face impassive as the smell of the man’s breath made him queasy.

“What if I want to give you more than a kiss?” Legolas whispered.

Gundor’s eyes went wide, and he lost his suavity for a moment. “You mean . . . here?”

“Perhaps not here. It is cold, after all. Somewhere quiet, and dark, and private. My room at the inn?”

He feared Gundor would have a fit, but the man took hold of himself. “Yes,” Gundor said thickly. “Go, and I will be there shortly.”

Legolas kept his eyes closed as Gundor pressed a kiss onto his lips, pulling away when Gundor opened his mouth. “Come to my room, Gundor! I will not be content with a kiss.” He left swiftly, trying not to double up with laughter.

On his way to his room, he paused at Talagan’s door. Somehow the seneschal had made it to bed, for he could hear contented snoring.

He had no time to waste. Once in his room, he stripped off his velvet robe and dressed in his hunting costume, leaving off his boots. He strapped on his knives and dimmed the lamp.

He chuckled; there was no need to reveal himself quickly. He drew out a robe and put it on over his clothing, then climbed into the bed, covering himself with blankets.

Talagan will not approve of this, his conscience whispered, as usual employing the voice of his eldest brother. You are about to humiliate the Lord of Dale! You are as an ambassador here!

Gundor did not show me any such courtesy, Legolas retorted.

He heard loud tiptoeing in the hall, and a quiet knock.

”Come in!” he called. The door opened, and Gundor entered, quickly closing the door behind him. He stood slack-jawed for a moment at the sight of Legolas in the bed.

“What are you waiting for?” Legolas said. “Undress, and join me.”

Gundor removed everything except for a thin linen shift. Legolas examined him critically. He was not that bad looking: tall, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a trim beard. It was interesting, Legolas reflected, that he was not overly disturbed that his suitor was male; it was Gundor’s foolishness that offended him.

Gundor slid under the blankets. “My prince. My lovely one,” he murmured. He lunged to take Legolas in his arms.

“Take off everything,” Legolas whispered. Gundor pulled off his last garment hurriedly.

“Perfect,” Legolas said with a grin. He stood and whipped the blankets off the bed. He removed his robe and drew a knife. Gundor huddled on the bed, his hands over his crotch. Legolas adjusted the lamp; he wanted Gundor to see he was armed.

“Prince?” Gundor said. His mouth was open in shock.

“Lord of Dale,” Legolas said, and bowed. The laugh he had been holding in burst out. “I am honored you have come to my room. Now leave.”

Gundor stood and reached for his robe. Legolas brandished a knife, and saw satisfying fear on the man’s face.

“No clothes, Gundor. You will make a dash for it.”

“What?” Gundor said. His face darkened, and Legolas was amused to see the man had the gall to grow angry.

“You will leave naked, or . . . ” Legolas advanced swiftly and held his knife to Gundor’s throat. “Or you won’t leave at all,” he added softly.

“I’m going,” Gundor bleated. He opened the door to the hall and hesitated. Legolas gave him a gentle jab on the buttocks, not breaking the skin. Gundor was off.

Legolas followed silently on his bare feet, running to the town hall next door. A sentry slept by the bell that called the townsfolk to meetings, or alarmed them in case of fire or flood. Legolas yanked the bell rope hard. Gundor was only a third of the way across the square.

Doors opened and lanterns were lit. Guards poured from the town hall and Gundor’s home. Legolas watched with glee, then frowned as Gundor disappeared around the side of his home, presumably to go in through the back. The Men did not see Gundor in the dark, although Legolas could see the naked man clearly.

He returned to the inn, meeting Talagan on the stairs. “What’s going on?” the seneschal asked. He looked at Legolas’s clothes with surprise. “What have you been doing?”

Legolas smiled. “Hunting.”

***

Boromir laughed hard, coughing and sputtering. “What happened after? Did you upset relations with Dale for the next fifty years?”

“Not at all. I attended all the meetings afterwards, and, for some reason, all the tolls were dropped. Whenever Lord Gundor put up a fuss, Talagan suggested ‘personal negotiations’ with me.”

“I did not know Elves were so mischievous,” Boromir said, shaking his head with mock sadness.

“Alas, poor Boromir,” Legolas said “You have had so many illusions shattered.” His arm dropped down from Boromir’s shoulders, and he idly stroked Boromir’s back.

Boromir shifted uncomfortably. It was bad enough having Legolas up against him under his cloak. Having his back rubbed was an unnecessary complication. He knew Legolas was referring to Elrond’s son Elrohir, and Boromir’s entanglement with him in Rivendell, which had indeed shattered many of the illusions he had had about Elves: that they were reserved and passionless, for instance. And, in Rivendell, Legolas had . . . flirted with Boromir? Boromir was not sure, for their friendship had quickly flourished, and then Legolas had fallen hard for Elrohir’s twin, Elladan.

Their pursuit of the twins had ended rather badly, although, Boromir considered, it could have been worse. They were all still alive, for one thing!

“Stop,” Boromir said urgently. Legolas withdrew his hand.

Boromir clamped his hands between his thighs again, not because of the cold. His fingers itched to touch Legolas.

***

The next day, he was not given the temptation, for he was on watch with Pippin. They had the first watch, which he thought was the hardest, for, the higher the sun rose in the sky, the harder it was to sleep.

The cold wind was still cutting through their clothing. They were camped in a shallow ravine to protect themselves from the wind. He beckoned to Pippin to follow him, and they climbed up out of the hollow. The only place to sit was upon a fallen log. Boromir prodded it with his boot to make sure it was not overrun with insects, then sat down, facing their camp.

Pippin sat four feet away on the log and wrapped himself in his cloak. He stuffed his hands in his armpits and hunched over.

“Pippin. Come here.” Boromir patted the log beside him. He rearranged his cloak so that it covered the log next to him. Dubiously, Pippin sat on it, and Boromir folded the remainder of his cloak around Pippin’s shoulders. Pippin sat up straight and stiff. Boromir grinned, put his arm around the hobbit’s shoulders, and pulled Pippin close.

“No need for you to freeze,” he said. Pippin relaxed against his side. The hobbit was warm, if not as warm as an Elf.

Boromir chuckled softly, thinking of the watches he had had previously with Merry and Sam. The hobbits must have concluded he was not a cloak sharer! Well, those days were over. There was nothing dignified about sitting on a log with a hobbit under his cloak, but he was sure his dignity would prefer it to freezing to death.

The shared warmth loosened Pippin’s tongue, and Boromir listened, bemused, as the hobbit rattled off tales of the Shire. Singing in taverns, accidents with fireworks, stolen mushrooms; it was a life of peace that Boromir could not imagine.

And all thanks to the rangers, he thought. Not until he had traveled to Rivendell had he learned that the rangers of the north had protected the people of the ancient kingdom of Arnor in secret. After Bilbo’s finding of the ring, and Frodo’s adoption of that burden, the Shire had been protected closely per Mithrandir’s instructions. The hobbits had never seen an invasion, or suffered a shock as mild as an attack of wolves, though there were some among them still old enough to remember the Fell Winter.

Pippin fell silent; the hobbit was asleep. Boromir gingerly moved his arm, securing Pippin to his side, and listened to the soft snores. He was taken aback by the fierce affection he had for the hobbit. Is this how fathers feel about their children, he wondered: a conviction he would fight dragons to protect the Halflings? He remembered his plan to teach the hobbits how to fight. They must begin soon.

***

The next night, he was back on watch with Legolas, making it the third time in a week. Legolas did not even ask: he moved Boromir’s cloak and settled against him, draping an arm around Boromir’s shoulder. Boromir bit his lip. He had had a dream about Legolas in which they had been doing far more than sharing a cloak.

“Legolas, why do I have watch with you so often?” he asked, to take his mind off the area below his waist.

“It’s simple. I have the best sight, and you have the worst!”

It was true; he was the least far-sighted of the company. The hobbits, even with their lack of woodcraft, moved silently, and had excellent hearing and sight. Even Gimli’s sight was better than his, though he noticed he had not been paired with the dwarf for watch duty -- the two of them together had the least keen senses of the Company. He did not think Aragorn’s eyesight was much better than his, but the ranger had surpassingly acute hearing.

Aragorn set up their watch schedules carefully, always pairing one of the hobbits with one of the bigger folk. Boromir had been on watch with Legolas, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. Not Frodo yet, and it rankled a little. Frodo had been on watch only with Aragorn and Mithrandir. Though if even Legolas had not yet had the honor, Boromir supposed he should not sulk over it.

Not that he would ever air a complaint so trivial to Aragorn.

Since first meeting Aragorn two months earlier, Boromir had gone through a wide cycle of feelings for the man. At first he had distrusted him, and then he had briefly resented him. Swiftly, Aragorn’s obvious admiration of Boromir had softened him, and then something had shifted inside him. He sought yet more admiration from Aragorn, and worked actively to bring words of appreciation from the soft lips. He lived for praise from Aragorn, as he had once lived for praise from his father.

And yet he also wondered at Aragorn, for, although Aragorn was clearly their guide, it was Mithrandir who was the leader of their company. Aragorn had not even made it clear where he was headed: with Frodo to Mordor, or with Boromir to Minas Tirith. Boromir suspected that Aragorn still wavered in his commitment to Gondor and to Men.

“I let Pippin keep me warm yesterday,” Boromir said.

“Good! Then the hobbits will not complain when they draw a watch with you.”

“They complained?”

“Of course! Even Gimli had the sense to share warmth. You were the only one to stay aloof for so long.”

Boromir laughed at the thought of Legolas and Gimli huddled together. He knew they had had at least one watch. “It did not occur to me,” Boromir said, and thought about it. He knew why; as Captain-General, he had been treated as one apart. None of his men would have curled up with him in that way, not even if they had been caught in a blizzard.

Legolas was intoxicatingly warm next to him. “Legolas,” he began, then stopped. In Rivendell, Legolas had stroked his hand and come close enough to kiss him. Before they set out, he had asked Legolas if his future would have been like to Lord Gundor’s, or if Legolas had planned to take him as a lover, although Legolas had never taken a Man as a lover before. Legolas had not answered his question, leaving their friendship intact.  
  
 _Don’t ask. If he says yes, Boromir, I would have had you as my lover, what then . . ._

Legolas dug Boromir in the ribs with his elbow. “What?”

Boromir said, “I was going to ask . . . about the Elvish trick of hearing thoughts, or speaking without words. Can all Elves do it?” Elrohir had done it while they had made love. Alas, he was not able to keep his mind off bed today. He pictured putting his cold hands on Legolas’s belly.

“Yes, all Elves can, to lesser and greater degrees. My ability is limited, due to my youth and Silvan blood. Lord Elrond can read thoughts even far off. His sons have inherited much of that ability, I believe.”

They exchanged a glance. Legolas’s face was only inches from his, and his arm was still around Boromir’s shoulders. Elladan had read Boromir’s thoughts and the result had been disastrous, the two of them entwined on a bed when Legolas had come in and caught them. Boromir did not think he had ever seen anything so frightening as Legolas in a rage. Of course, he had not seen Elladan or Elrohir in a rage, and he had a hunch it would be far worse . . .

He cleared his throat. Thoughts of Elrohir were not calming him. He put his arm around Legolas’s waist, his fingers sliding on Legolas’s skin before he stopped himself.

“Boromir, your hands are freezing!”

“I know,” Boromir said ruefully. “Gloves don’t help. The cold has soaked through me and I am never completely warm.”

Legolas took Boromir’s hands, putting them palm to palm, then put his own hands over them, pressing. They sat in silence. Boromir’s heart pounded. The heat of Legolas radiated through his hands. The heat was growing elsewhere as well. _Must not kiss him. It would be unfortunate if the hobbits saw me naked, and Legolas prodding my rear with his knife._ The image broke his tension and he laughed.

Legolas smiled and looked at him questioningly.

“It’s nothing,” Boromir said. “Merely thinking of Lord Gundor.”

Legolas said, “You were spared his fate.”

“Barely,” Boromir said truthfully, and Legolas’s hands tightened on his. Boromir marveled at how strong his hands were. Legolas pushed Boromir’s hands up under his tunic so that they rested on his bare skin. Boromir held back a groan as the heat enveloped his hands.

“You were thinking of that,” Legolas said. “Warming your hands on me.”

Boromir opened his mouth, failing to speak. Softly, Legolas kissed him. It lasted barely a moment, yet the heat of it washed through his body, all the way down to his toes.

“You are warmer?” Legolas asked with a smile.

“Yes. Warm,” Boromir rasped. Legolas removed his hands from their toasty nest.

“Our watch is nearly over, Boromir,” Legolas said.

“Too bad,” Boromir replied, his voice rough. He heard a twig snap and looked up to see Aragorn coming up the slope. It was much later when he remembered rangers never snapped twigs.

***

That evening, he started to train the hobbits how to fight. Sam and Merry took to it quickly, while Pippin took unnecessary risks, and Frodo took too few. Aragorn watched and smiled, and Boromir reflected that the ranger had been somber since they had set out from Rivendell. Was it their slim chance of success that oppressed him? Boromir thought not, for Aragorn’s mood seemed closer to sorrow than worry.

As they walked that evening in the dark, Aragorn leading them unerringly, Pippin stayed at Boromir’s side. Boromir smiled as Pippin talked without cease, as usual. Yet he listened attentively as Pippin explained that the first time he had used a weapon in his life was during his journey to Rivendell, when the Nazgul had attacked the hobbits at Weathertop.

Boromir looked at Pippin with pity. It horrified him that the hobbits had had to face the Morgul demons. In Osgiliath, he had seen hardened veterans drop their blades and cast themselves weeping on the ground when the Nazgul had come. And yet the hobbits had fought!

“. . . a Morgul-blade!” Pippin was saying.

“What?” Boromir asked, coming out of his reverie.

“I was saying I had never seen anything like it. The Morgul blade Frodo was stabbed with -- it melted away! Aragorn saved the hilt and brought it to Elrond.”

“Frodo was stabbed with a Morgul weapon?” Boromir asked, shocked. He knew that Frodo had been wounded, but he had no particulars. Frodo was up and about when Boromir arrived in Rivendell.

“Yes. A piece of it broke off and was traveling to his heart; Elrond removed it in time.”

Boromir licked his suddenly dry lips. “The weapon: what was its purpose?”

“Frodo would become a wraith, Aragorn said, only weaker, and under the control of the Nazgul. Do you know much of the Nazgul, Boromir? Were they Men of Gondor? Aragorn said they were once Men.”

“Yes, they were Men; little is known of their origin,” Boromir said mechanically. Frodo nearly a wraith! “A Morgul-wound!” he muttered, shaking his head.

“It will never really heal,” Pippin said. “That’s what Gandalf said. And I know it hasn’t. It still pains him.”

Boromir wished he had known this before they had set out, so he could have spoken to Elrond at length. He could still speak to Aragorn or Mithrandir about it, but . . . but it was too late. For Boromir would have questioned Frodo’s fitness to be the Ringbearer if he had known about this wound. His ancestor Boromir the First had lived in crippling pain after a Morgul-wound; mercifully, perhaps, it cut his life short.

It would never heal; would it drain Frodo’s strength and spirits in the days to come? What lasting effects could such a wound have?

He was quiet for the rest of the long march through darkness.

***

That day, as he slept, he had the nightmare again: Mordor unleashed, blackness covering the land. Faramir fought off innumerable foes; in vain, for they kept coming, tens of thousands of them pouring across the river in the dark.

“Boromir,” Legolas hissed.

Boromir sat up. He was soaked with sweat quickly turning icy. He shivered. Legolas was a few feet away, lying on his back, staring up at the sky.

“Sorry,” Boromir said. “Only a bad dream.” While in Rivendell, the cursed dream of Faramir’s death had not come to him. He had had it for twelve years, almost monthly, since Faramir had been made Captain of Ithilien.

“Only a bad dream! You were crying out and kicking your legs!” Legolas knelt at Boromir’s side.

“It was nothing. A dream I’ve had before.”

“What is it about?” Legolas asked. “Sometimes speaking of these things lessens their power.”

Boromir haltingly described the dream, and the variations he had had over the years. When he mentioned the fanged creature, with blood dripping from its mouth, that he had once dreamt attacked Faramir, Legolas grew grave.

“A werewolf,” Legolas muttered.

“What is that?” Boromir asked.

“It is an accursed monster, and it is also a shape that Sauron has taken in the past. Perhaps you know the tale of the great hound that battled him in that form.”

Boromir nodded. “Yes, I had forgotten.” He shivered, his sweat freezing. Legolas lay down next to him, sliding under his blanket. Boromir was lying on top of his cloak with two blankets over him. He was fully dressed. He even had his boots on; that was how they slept in these hard lands.

Legolas wrapped his arms around him and held him tight. “Are you warm now, Boromir?” Legolas asked after a few moments had passed.

“Warmer,” Boromir said. He would not admit to being warm enough if that meant Legolas would let him go.

A shaft of sunlight fell on Legolas’s face, and Boromir stared. He had had nearly three months to grow accustomed to Legolas’s beauty, yet he could stay silent no longer.

“Legolas, I must say this: you are the fairest being I have ever seen, man or woman, Elf or Man. But that is not why you are beautiful to me. To me, you are beautiful when you are holding a knife, moving fast to strike. The look in your eyes then . . .” His voice trailed off. He was no longer sure of what he meant to say.

Legolas smiled slightly. “I’m glad we have that out of the way. Friends?”

“Always.” Boromir sighed. Why didn’t Legolas kiss him again? Then he would be warm. Too warm. He closed his eyes and settled down for sleep.

A minute passed. “And thank you,” Legolas whispered.

***

Boromir plucked Frodo out of the snow for the third time. The hobbit’s face was bluish, his responses dulled: freezing to death!

He had argued strenuously against taking the pass over the mountains, recommending to the Company that they continue south and pass through the Gap of Rohan, but Aragorn and Mithrandir were too wary of Saruman.

Boromir ground his teeth in frustration. Saruman was undoubtedly a threat, yet surely that was offset by the Rohirrim. If they passed into Rohan, Eomer and Theodred would hasten to aid them. All of the company could be mounted; ponies for the hobbits, even.

He forced himself to let it go; what mattered now was getting off the mountain before the hobbits died.

At Boromir’s insistence, they lit the firewood they had brought at his urging. Too soon the fuel was gone. He gathered Merry and Pippin against him; Legolas pulled Sam and Frodo close.

It was a long and dreadful night. Boromir did not think he would have lived through it without Legolas. While all of them were downcast, trembling, and exhausted, Legolas was still unbowed. Every time Boromir looked at him, the Elf smiled at him in a way that spread fire through his belly. He moved himself and the two hobbits next to Legolas, pushing himself against Legolas’s side, holding Merry and Pippin in his lap. Legolas did the same with Sam and Frodo.

Boromir was relieved to see Frodo was alert, no longer overcome by the deadly drowsiness. Boromir looked at the hobbit forlornly, and Frodo caught his eye and smiled.

He knew his insistence on the firewood had saved the hobbits’ lives, yet he was consumed with guilt; he should have taken a harder line against the Pass of Caradhras. His desire for Aragorn’s good opinion and his respect for Mithrandir had led him to acquiesce too quickly. Thank the Valar he had at least held out for bringing the wood.

The storm died down, the blackness turning to grey as the day dawned, revealing they were trapped in their rude shelter by the heavy snowfall.

There was nothing for it; he and Aragorn must clear the snow away so that the rest of the Company could escape.

Still Legolas’s spirits did not sag. After some teasing from Mithrandir, Legolas boasted with a grin, “I go to find the sun.” He ran swiftly over the snow as Aragorn and Boromir sunk into it up to their armpits.

Boromir lifted and pushed the snow aside, Aragorn next to him. After they had progressed a dozen feet, Aragorn stepped behind him. Boromir looked at him inquiringly, and Aragorn gave his crooked smile.

“I am slowing you down. You are the stronger, Boromir,” Aragorn said, and then Boromir flushed warm in the freezing cold, for Aragorn faintly inclined his head. A bow.

He pulled ahead to hide his emotion and tackled the snow with a vengeance. He could hear Aragorn close behind him. Soon they were sweating heavily and panting as loud as bulls.

They had gone half a furlong when they collapsed, lying on the snow as if it were an icy featherbed. Aragorn chuckled, and soon they were laughing loudly, uncontrollably. Boromir was not sure why; perhaps it was relief that the night of terror had ended, and they were unharmed.

Aragorn stood and pulled him up by one hand. They stood for a moment, Aragorn grasping his forearm, smiling into his eyes. Boromir’s smile flickered away. He had put aside all thoughts of Aragorn as a man; he was Isildur’s Heir, the future king of Gondor, not this dark-haired man with soft lips only inches from his own . . .

He turned away from Aragorn and tackled the snow angrily. Aragorn seized his arm and yanked him around. Aragorn’s eyes looked into his searchingly. As when they had first met in Rivendell, before Boromir learned Aragorn’s identity, Aragorn tried to probe his mind. Boromir took a step back, swinging his arm back and forth violently to dislodge Aragorn’s grip.

“Boromir! I am sorry. Please forgive my rudeness,” Aragorn said, and released his arm.

Boromir regarded him silently. Tension crackled between them, and he knew he could not turn his back again. Aragorn would not let him. He was not prepared for Aragorn’s next words.

“I know what it is that you wish of me, Boromir,” Aragorn said, his voice free of any inflection, good or ill. Boromir stood stiffly, held by Aragorn’s gaze. “I saw you with Legolas,” Aragorn added, and emotion crept over his face. Embarrassment, perhaps. “I saw you kiss him.”

Boromir reddened and looked away. “Aye,” he said, and could think of nothing further to say.

“Boromir, I would not have this change anything between us. What you think of me .. . as a man.”

“You are the leader of our company first, and a man second,” Boromir said, rejoicing to hear his voice steady.

Aragorn nodded. No, he had inclined his head again. A bow from a king. “As you are the steward’s heir first, and a man second,” Aragorn said.

“And captain-general of Gondor,” Boromir added.

Aragorn nodded.

“And the brother of Faramir.”

Aragorn looked surprised.

“And a member of this Fellowship,” Boromir concluded. “There are many things to which my being a man must come second.”

Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder, and Boromir allowed it. “Then all is well,” Aragorn said softly. His face creased in a grin. “At the moment, what is first for you is this: Find us the sun.” He gestured at the snow that lay in their path.

They set to, their brief rest aiding their efforts, for the snow showed no signs of lessening in depth; it was nearly as high as their heads.

Abruptly, it grew deeper, towering over them. They halted, breathing raggedly.

“Ah! The Strong Men of our Company! How do you fare?”

Legolas peered down at them in their canyon of snow. Boromir cursed the Elf thoroughly while Aragorn laughed helplessly.

“I shall disregard that, Boromir, and tell you that the snow grows greatly less an arm’s length from where you stand.” Legolas smiled so joyously Boromir could not help smiling back.

He and Aragorn threw their bodies at the snow, side by side, burrowing like rabbits. Aragorn was still laughing; once they pushed their way through, they collapsed on the ground. Boromir’s sides ached from the exertion and the laughter.

Legolas slid down the slope of the snow and sat next to him, draping an arm over his shoulders. Boromir struggled not to respond. He would not have reacted before Aragorn had revealed his knowledge; for the sake of the fellowship, he must treat Legolas no differently from the others.

As they headed back to the rest of the Company on the path he had beaten, his heart swelled at the admiration in Aragorn’s eyes.

His good mood lasted as he and Aragorn carried the four hobbits through the snow. He carried Pippin first -- not that he had a choice. The hobbit clambered up onto his back eagerly, using the opportunity to talk excitedly into Boromir’s ear, tickling Boromir’s neck with his curly hair. As they neared the end, the hobbit was temporarily overcome by the weariness of the long night and leaned his head on Boromir’s shoulder, his face in Boromir’s neck. Boromir suppressed a yelp when Pippin’s cold nose pressed into his skin.


	2. The Lady Who Dies Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shining One series from Rivendell to Amon Hen. Boromir falls into darkness, but at last finds the sun.

“The Lady who dies not,” Faramir had called her: the Sorceress of the Golden Wood. Although Faramir had greater reverence for the Eldar than many Men, even he feared her legend. For countless lives of men, it was rumored that to enter her realm was to invite ruin. And none had lived to say different.

He had experienced several times the Elvish trick of reading minds. That had not prepared him for Galadriel. When she turned her eyes to him, there was no preliminary probing. She was in his mind instantly, and she had control of it, not him.

“You know he is too weak to carry it,” she said to him without words. “He will turn. He is already turning. His wound has made him receptive to them; they will come for him.”

Sweat poured off of him as she spoke the words aloud in his mind, thoughts he had kept hidden.

“And all will die.” Her voice continued relentlessly. Images flashed through his mind of Faramir. Denethor. Eomer. All dead. Minas Tirith was burning. Orcs moved across the Pelennor unhindered, feasting on corpses. All went black. “You can stop it,” she said urgently. “You are strong; you would not weaken. Take it and go forth to victory! It belongs to the world of Men; you must not shrink from this burden.”

His vision at the Council of Elrond returned with greater force: he stormed the Dark Tower, an endless army following him. As the tower crumbled, Faramir and Eomer were at his side. And Legolas. The four of them embraced, to a resounding cheer from the throats of hundreds of thousands of Men . . .

The choice was clear to him. Life, or death. Then another vision came into his mind: Frodo slain and the ring in Boromir’s hand. He wept and covered his eyes.

***

The Elves prepared a spacious pavilion for them on the ground, a resting place to the taste of Halflings and Men. Although Boromir was exhausted as he had never been before, he could not sleep.

“I do not feel sure of this Elvish lady and her purposes,” Boromir said. He was shamed by the look of anger Aragorn gave him. Was he alone in his fear of her? He did not think so, for none of the others would talk about the thoughts that had come into their minds. Only Legolas and Aragorn had been able to meet her eyes.

He asked Frodo what he had seen, desperate for some clue as to how the hobbit was bearing up under his burden. Frodo refused to answer. Had Frodo seen himself giving the ring to the Nazgul, to his masters?

Boromir recoiled from his thoughts. Frodo would _not_ betray them. He recalled the small warm weight of the grieving hobbit in his arms as they fled from Moria, and his guilt for doubting Frodo gnawed at his guts like a sickness.

Aragorn moved close to him and urged him to rest, the softness of his voice inflaming Boromir’s self-loathing. He desired to grip Aragorn in his arms and pour out his doubt and fear. But that would only add to Aragorn’s burdens. His captain’s burden.

The confrontation with the Balrog had been a revelation to Boromir. As they stood at the edge of the chasm, Boromir’s legs had turned to water. Only the strength of Aragorn’s will had kept him standing. A light flickered on Aragorn’s brow as he raced to battle the Balrog. He had turned away, accepting Mithrandir’s sacrifice, only when Boromir cried out his name.

In the darkness, Boromir had seen a king.

No longer able to hold out against Aragorn’s intent gaze, Boromir spoke of his older worries: Minas Tirith, his father, and the burden of expectation he had borne all his life. He knew Aragorn would understand readily, for Aragorn’s burden was greater.

Aragorn had no father to live up to; he had Elrond. Boromir knew little of Elves and their attitudes towards marriage, but he did not doubt that Arwen would not marry against her father’s wishes, and that Aragorn would never force her hand. Although he had spent little time in their company in Rivendell, Boromir could see the strong bond between father and daughter. The daughter was everything to Elrond, as she was to Aragorn.

And as Faramir is to me, he thought, and sighed. “My brother,” he said, then stopped. Aragorn looked at him questioningly. For a moment, Boromir pitied Aragorn in the only fashion he could: Aragorn had no brother. The sons of Elrond’s great age made them closer to foster fathers than foster brothers to Aragorn, in Boromir’s opinion.

“I dream of his death,” Boromir said at last.

Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder. “I know,” Aragorn said quietly. Boromir shot him a surprised look, and Aragorn added, “Legolas told me. I noticed your disturbed sleeping, and asked him if he knew the cause.”

“You could have asked me,” Boromir said without heat. “I did not have the dreams in Rivendell.”

“You shall not have them here,” Aragorn said. He moved closer, sitting at Boromir’s side. He put an arm around Boromir and tugged. Boromir’s head drooped, falling onto Aragorn’s shoulder. He sat up and stared into Aragorn’s eyes. If Aragorn knew what Boromir had been thinking about Frodo, he would not be offering this comfort. He would look away, in disgust.

Aragorn regarded him gravely. His face was close. Closer than it had ever been. Boromir’s eyes dropped to Aragorn’s lips. How could he be feeling this? One part of him knew that this was his liege lord, and he would lay down his life for him. Another part of him wanted to push the man flat and press a hard kiss to his lips, hear a cry of need come out of that beautiful mouth . . .

He froze as Aragorn’s hand covered his mouth. His lips were almost touching Aragorn’s. Boromir pulled back, his face pale. If Aragorn had not put his hand up . . .

Aragorn smiled faintly, apparently little disturbed by Boromir’s attempt to kiss him. “I had formed a different opinion of you, based on what the Dunedain told me. I admit I was confused the first time you looked at me that way.”

Boromir smiled weakly. Ah, the Dunedain! He had spent nearly two months with Aragorn’s kin in the Angle on his way to Rivendell. He had lain with a woman there, and the village had been full of talk thanks to her loud cries of enjoyment. The village did not know that many of the cries came from her brother.

“I imagine you are used to it, like Legolas,” Boromir said. “All men look at him with a . . . need in their eyes, he has told me.”

Aragorn flushed at the suggestion his appearance routinely caused lust, and ignored it.

“Even I have looked at Legolas that way,” Aragorn said. Boromir sat up straighter. “When we first met years ago in Mirkwood. I saw him in the woods and for a moment . . .” Aragorn cleared his throat. “We are friends. He did not hold it against me.”

Boromir had thought Aragorn completely impervious. He studied Aragorn closely, as if he could find some outward sign that he had previously missed. Of course, he could not. Such things could not be seen on men’s faces.

Aragorn looked at him gravely. “Boromir, I have not spoken to you of Legolas, because we have been fighting for our lives since we left Hollin. If you are his lover, you should be wary. The Eldar do not give their hearts lightly. It is exceedingly rare for an Elf and a Man . . .” His voice halted. No doubt he was thinking of Arwen. “And for a male Elf to give his heart to a man -- it is unknown to me.”

“I am not Legolas’s lover,” Boromir said. I am his . . . friend? He did not know how to describe what was happening between them. When they had lain together in Moria, they had not made love so much as had a battle of naked bodies and tongues. He was sure Legolas had a deep love for him, as one friend for another, but no more. He also had a deep love for Legolas -- as a friend, he assured himself. Yet he hungered for Legolas’s presence, although Legolas had been gone for only a few hours, leaving the pavilion to speak to his Silvan kin. Boromir’s mouth quirked. _They_ would appreciate his singing, at least.

He glanced at Aragorn, who looked embarrassed. “I heard you in Moria,” Aragorn said. “It did not sound like friends.”

Boromir’s face burned. “We were not making love,” he said, and flushed deeper. _I was merely helping a friend sleep_ , he thought.

Aragorn smiled, a rare smile of mischief that Boromir had not seen since the hobbits had tackled Boromir and knocked him down during weapons practice. “Then I fear hearing you when you _are_ making love,” Aragorn said, and grinned.

They laughed softly, and for a moment Boromir had peace; Aragorn craved his company, the presence of another Man, as much as he needed Aragorn’s company. If only . . .

He looked down at the ground. If only Aragorn was not his king? Betrothed to another? Not repulsed by the idea of lying with a man? _It cannot happen in this world!_

***

The day they arrived in Lórien, Boromir knew what to expect from his time in Rivendell: the Elves gave him a robe, he took a bath, and his filthy clothing vanished. That night he slept naked under cool linen. Boromir woke refreshed. Lórien was healing him in body, if not in mind. He and Aragorn were outfitted with borrowed robes until their cleaned clothing was returned to them.

For several days, the Company did little except eat, sleep, and bathe, yet the time passed swiftly. Ten days after they arrived -- Boromir was uncertain, for it was exceedingly difficult to keep track of time in Lórien -- he went to the bathhouse. As in Rivendell, he went prior to the evening meal.

The bathhouse was large, and divided in two, one side for men, the other for women. Inside was a pool of heated water, fashioned to look like a natural body of water. The roof was open to the sky, although there were awnings that could be drawn during inclement weather. Before entering the pool, he was expected to soap himself under a stream of running water.

The first time, he entered the pool dirty, and the Elves had frowned. Aragorn had smiled and showed him the procedure. That had been an awkward hour, bathing with Aragorn. Finally he had closed his eyes so he would not have to see Aragorn’s hair wetly clinging to naked shoulders, the rest of him hidden in the steamy water.

His visits to the bathhouse had become routine. He soaped and drenched himself, then stepped down into the pool before noticing Legolas was there as well, submerged in the water up to his chin.

He had seen little of Legolas. After their first night in the pavilion, Legolas was gone except for the few meals he took with them. He sometimes took Gimli with him as he went about Lothlorien. At first, Boromir was glad that Legolas was finding comfort in the company of his kin. After a few days, he resented it, although he knew he had no right to.

Legolas stood up in the waist-deep water, welcome on his face. It was the first time Boromir saw Legolas unclad, for, in the dark of Moria, he had seen nothing. He gulped at the sight. Although it was night, bright moonlight poured in through the open roof of the bathhouse.

As he was taller than Legolas, the water reached only to his hip bones, barely hiding the hair thickening below the trail down his stomach. Legolas gazed at him intently. Boromir crouched, lowering himself in the water to mid-chest to hide his rapidly growing erection.

Legolas smiled, and Boromir’s chest tightened. The moonlight on Legolas’s skin and hair left him wordless. He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Legolas glided through the water and sat down on a step submerged in the pool. Boromir sat by his side. The water came up to their necks.

“I do not think I have ever seen you so clean,” Legolas said, his voice teasing.

Boromir was unable to think of a response. “I have missed your company,” he finally said, disturbed by the need in his voice.

“Alas, I have neglected my friends. I could not resist sleeping in a talan, instead of on the ground. It is how we live in Mirkwood. My father has a great fortress, but we do not live in it. It is a storehouse and an armoury, not a palace. We build houses in the trees, as the Galadhrim do. Ours are not so fine, as they are not meant to last more than a season or two.”

“Where have you been staying?” Boromir asked. He placed his hands on the step next to his thighs. The water moved gently. Legolas’s hand touched his under the water.

“I shall show you,” Legolas said. He stood and climbed out of the water, moving unselfconsciously in spite of his lack of clothing.

Boromir called to him. “Legolas. I need . . . a towel before I can get out.”

Legolas brought him one. Boromir wrapped it around his waist as he stepped out of the water; it did not help, for the fabric was pushed out in a manner impossible to disguise.

Legolas was grinning. “We shall leave now.”

Boromir darted to his clothes. His leather surcoat could hide anything.

***

He followed Legolas through the city, alarmed when they headed towards the center peak, near the home of Galadriel and Celeborn. But they continued over the crest of the hill, deep into the shadows below the trees. Legolas led him to a tree with a white ladder, which looked no different -- to Boromir -- from dozens of other trees with white ladders that they had passed. Legolas climbed and Boromir followed.

It was a long climb. When they reached the top, Boromir saw that the structure was large and outfitted luxuriously.

“Who lives here?” he asked in wonderment.

“This residence was built for Thranduil, my father, though he has not been here for many long years. It is used by any dignitary that visits.” Legolas was ill at ease with the admission.

Since he had arrived in Rivendell, Boromir had pieced together that Thranduil’s claim of kingship over the Elves of Mirkwood was not universally applauded. If there was any Elven lord in Middle-earth who could claim kingship over the Elves, it was Elrond. Knowing this, Boromir still found Legolas’s reservation concerning his rank inexplicable. He would have no such timidity, if his father had been a king.

Boromir bowed. “Thank you for receiving me, your highness.”

Legolas flushed. “Please, Boromir. Your blood is as royal as mine.”

Boromir turned away, a strange pain filling him. It was a disappointment he had long hidden. In another world, his forefathers would have taken the kingship of Gondor centuries earlier, for he was of the same blood as Aragorn. Loftier, perhaps, for his family had intermarried with other noble houses, such as his mother’s, during the long years Isildur’s line had lain hidden. He recalled the rustic dwellings of the rangers in the north with distaste.

Legolas eyed him uneasily. “Are you well, Boromir?” Legolas asked. “You looked . . . odd.”

“It is nothing,” Boromir said swiftly. “Who else dwells here?”

“No one but I,” Legolas said, and smiled broadly. Boromir followed him up another ladder into a smaller chamber, one wall of it close-knit living branches. There was a low bed under a sheer canopy. Legolas went to a cabinet and removed wine and goblets, then poured the wine out for them. They sipped it, standing, looking at each other in silence.

“You are overdressed, Boromir,” Legolas said. He was wearing only a silvery tunic and grey leggings. He had removed his shoes as soon as they were up the ladder. His hair was loose. Boromir stood still while Legolas took away his wine glass and undressed him until he was in his undershirt and leggings.

“Better,” Legolas whispered. He held Boromir’s head between his hands and kissed him lightly.

Something was making Boromir dizzy. The hot bath, or the long climb, or the wine. Surely not Legolas.

Legolas leaned into him. “I want to make love to you again, Boromir,” he whispered. “On a bed this time, in the moonlight.”

Boromir laughed. “You have not _made love_ to me, Legolas. Not yet.” He picked up his wine glass and took a large gulp from it.

Legolas frowned, his brows drawn together.

“You have _never_ made love, I would wager,” Boromir added.

Legolas looked furious, and Boromir for a moment feared the Elf would strike him a blow. Then he relaxed, for they were unarmed, and if it came to a fight between them, he would win through his superior strength and greater weight. Legolas could defeat him only with knives and with a bow; not with his hands, nor with a sword.

Impulsively, he wrapped his arms around Legolas and hugged him hard, lifting him up off the ground and kissing him, as if Legolas were a maid or child. He did it because he could; he wanted Legolas to feel his power.

Legolas fumed, as he had expected. “Boromir, if you are angry about Moria, there is no need to insult me. I thought you enjoyed it as much as I did. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken. I enjoyed it. For what it was.” Boromir grinned infuriatingly.

“And what was it?” Legolas asked, his voice clipped.

“A game. Not love making. You took; you did not give.” Boromir’s voice grew louder as he spoke. He was angry with Legolas after all.

“Why do you speak of love, Boromir?” Legolas asked, his face guarded.

That brought Boromir up short. Why indeed was he speaking of love? “Do not change the subject, Legolas. You have never made love, if what you did with me is your usual technique.” Boromir sank deep into thought. _Do I have the right to criticize him? I have often lain with a man only to find my own satisfaction, and perhaps to impress him with my skill as a lover, thereby confirming my good opinion of myself!_

He stared blankly ahead as his thoughts churned, then his eyes focused on the sight in front of him: Legolas’s pale, beautiful face, twisted with pain.

“Legolas!” he cried. Why had he been so cruel? He took a step forward, raising his arms, his palms up.

“You think me heartless, Boromir.” Legolas said. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“Please forgive me. I have done worse in my time. Take no heed . . .”

“Boromir! You know you speak the truth. I have never _made love_ , as you said.”

Boromir took another step closer. Hesitantly, he put his arms around Legolas, embracing the stiff body in his arms. Legolas looked soft in the moonlight, but he was hard, as hard as the wood under their feet.

Boromir put a hand under Legolas’s chin, tilting his face up, and kissed him.

Legolas pulled away. “Let us drink wine, and talk for a while,” Legolas said. He refilled their glasses and guzzled his down in one gulp. He looked at Boromir, a silent plea in his eyes; Boromir was reminded of a soldier fortifying himself with drink on his wedding night. He swallowed his wine and held his glass out for more.

***

After three additional glasses of wine, it seemed reasonable for them to sit on the bed, and to undress, and to lie side by side under the sheets. Their talk grew easier; they spoke of amusing things done by the hobbits, or Gimli’s insults before the Dwarf and Elf were friends.

A brief silence fell, and Legolas looked somber. “I never answered your question, Boromir. The one you asked before we left Rivendell: whether I intended to take you as a lover, or whether I planned to punish you, like Lord Gundor, for your attentions.”

Boromir gave him a sidelong glance. They were half reclined, their heads and upper backs against the wall at the head of the bed.

“I planned to seduce you,” Legolas said. “Although you are a Man.”

“Why?” Boromir said, baffled. He was reminded sharply of that time, when Legolas’s interest had confused him, as there were dozens of Elves fairer than he in Rivendell to choose from.

Legolas set his wine glass on the floor. “You do not know, do you? It is because you brighten this world, Boromir. When you are near, I cannot keep my eyes off of you. You are like the sun. You warm me.” Legolas’s voice dipped lower with each word.

“Not I,” Boromir said roughly. “It is you, Legolas, who is like the sun. You kept me warm on Caradhras. Your light kept me from despair in Moria.” He abandoned his wine glass, not looking at Legolas. When he had lain with Elrohir in Rivendell, the Peredhil had shown him a vision of himself, in which he had glowed indeed. Boromir had thought it merely an invention of Elrohir’s lust, nothing real. His face heated as he considered that he had been mistaken, that he was in fact . . .

“You are beautiful,” Legolas whispered. Cautiously, they wrapped their arms around each other. He kissed Legolas softly. Legolas accepted it, his eyes closed, his brow slightly furrowed. Encouraged, Boromir planted kisses on his cheeks, neck, and down his chest, teasing the small brown nipples with his tongue. Legolas was tense in his arms, sharpening his desire to turn Legolas relaxed and pliant under him.

He moved on top of Legolas and continued teasing the nipples with his mouth and fingers. Legolas sighed, yet he seemed accepting, rather than aroused.

Instead of increasing the force of his caresses, Boromir softened them. He longed to treat Legolas with the utmost gentleness. Legolas had invited rough caresses in the past, he deemed. He would go the other way.

He brushed his fingertips so lightly across the nipples that he barely touched them, and they hardened. Legolas’s lips parted, his eyes still closed. The hips beneath Boromir stirred, moving down and away from him as Legolas’s back arched slightly. He wet the nipples with his tongue and blew on them and was rewarded with a moan.

The moan turned him feverish. In that instant, he knew what he wished to do: he would take Legolas as gently as he would take a maiden. Make love to him, if Legolas would allow him to be in control, instead of dictating every touch.

He stroked the body under him as if it were as fragile as an eggshell. He moved down and teased Legolas’s thighs with his tongue for a long moment. Legolas put his hands on Boromir’s shoulders, urging him to do more, but Boromir ignored it, kissing the sleek erection, rasping it with his whiskers. Legolas grasped Boromir’s hair and pressed him down forcefully. Boromir gave him a light lick, drawing a needy moan from Legolas.

He lay full length on Legolas again, their cocks sliding against each other. He forgot himself and ground against the body below him. Was it softer, less rigid? Legolas’s skin was as smooth as silk, but below it was unforgiving muscle, strung as tight as a bow.

Legolas responded to the pressure eagerly, wrapping his arms around Boromir’s neck and kissing him. Boromir plunged his tongue into Legolas’s mouth, showing him what it was like for another tongue to command his own. Legolas opened his mouth wider, his breath coming in short pants.

Breaking the kiss, Boromir extended an arm, feeling along the floor by the bed. He had seen a wooden box there, and he suspected it would hold what he needed. Legolas would not take him to bed unprepared. His fingers closed on the small bottle with relief.

He kissed Legolas again, giddy when Legolas parted his legs below him, so that he rested between the hot thighs. An immortal heat. He forced himself to kiss and nibble and caress, instead of plundering and taking. He reached for the oil, putting a generous amount on his fingers.

Usually, at this stage with a lover, he would give pleasure with his mouth. He did not, needing to watch Legolas’s face, for he had to know what Legolas was feeling. He moved Legolas’s legs so his knees were bent, the soles of his feet flat on the bed, and reached below him, smoothing oil on the hot skin. Legolas’s eyes were open, regarding him with utter seriousness.

He slowly stroked over the opening with his fingers, pressing down a little harder each time. Legolas’s mouth was open, his breath coming fast. He closed his eyes. Boromir gently pressed one fingertip down, sliding it past the first resistance to his second knuckle. Legolas’s mouth opened wide in surprise, and he threw his head back. Boromir moved his finger, curling it. Legolas cried out urgently. Boromir kissed Legolas’s jaw and neck, murmuring soft nonsense words. He pushed his finger in a little further, and curled it up again. Legolas cried out again and lifted his legs, placing his feet on Boromir’s back. His eyes opened, an unfathomable dark blue in the dim light. Boromir covered his mouth with his own and pushed his tongue in, mimicking the movement of his finger. Legolas wrapped his arms and legs around him tightly.

Boromir removed his finger to squeeze his hand between their bodies to slick oil on himself. “Let me make love to you, Legolas,” he panted. Legolas pushed against him wordlessly. Boromir held his cock by the base and pushed.

For a while he pushed in vain. Finally there was a faint yielding as Legolas relaxed, his face contorting with effort. Legolas’s eyes closed again. Boromir slowly pushed in all the way, a groan escaping from his mouth. He had not anticipated the heat and pressure would be nearly too much to bear.

He waited for Legolas to relax, gnawing on Legolas’s neck, the Elf’s chin tilted sharply up to give him access. At last, slowly, he moved in and out, letting out a startled yell when Legolas dug heels into his back and fingernails into his shoulder blades. He moved a little faster and was rewarded when Legolas gripped his hips in a stranglehold with his legs, his fingers clutching at Boromir’s chest.

Boromir was light-headed with power and lust and something else he could not name. Gradually, he increased his speed, until Legolas latched onto Boromir’s neck with his lips and teeth, sucking hard enough to bruise the flesh. His hands grasped Boromir’s hips, pushing down hard, urging Boromir to move faster.

Boromir could move only so fast in that position. He pulled out without warning, turning Legolas over. For a moment, Legolas fought him, but as soon as he understood Boromir was changing their position, not stopping, he stayed his movements, kneeling with his face on the mattress. Boromir cried out softly with need at the sight of Legolas arching his back completely, his buttocks much higher than his waist, his body taut with longing. As Boromir slid in again, they both exclaimed their relief.

Soon he was moving as fast as he thought safe, for he did not wish to harm Legolas. The Elf undermined his restraint, rocking back against Boromir’s hips. Boromir reached below Legolas to touch his erection; Legolas pushed his hand away, wanting nothing to interfere with the new sensation.

Boromir had boasted to Eomer that he could last a long time, half an hour or more, if his lover wanted him to. That was before Legolas. The sight of him, the smell of him, and the feel of him would make Boromir lose control soon. Based on Legolas’s desperate movements, Boromir was still not moving fast or hard enough to please him.

Abruptly, he pulled out again and turned Legolas over on his back. Legolas let out a wail of disappointment. Boromir knelt and said, “Rest your weight on your hands.” Legolas hurried to do so, then Boromir locked his hands under Legolas’s hips and lifted him.

“Lift your feet up,” he whispered. He had tried this once before, with Faramir, and he remembered how fast he could move this way. It only worked if his lover weighed less than he and was of lithe build, which Legolas certainly was. Before he could enter Legolas, Legolas moved against him, pushing himself down on Boromir’s cock. Boromir groaned loudly.

At last he had Legolas in the right position: his hands on the bed, supporting his upper body, his lower body supported by Boromir’s arms, his feet in the air. All Boromir had to do was swing his arms to move Legolas against him.

Legolas had a better idea, sliding his heels over Boromir’s shoulders. Boromir moved his arms, pulling Legolas to him, and Legolas moaned. There was astonishment in the sound, as if Legolas was amazed to learn how much pleasure he had given his lovers by this act in the past. Boromir stopped holding back and moved as fast he could. The effect on Legolas was immediate. Legolas’s legs tightened, his curled toes touching Boromir’s shoulders, then he let out a long, inarticulate cry, high and piercing. _I had you singing._ Boromir groaned as Legolas contracted violently around him, his stomach damp with Legolas’s seed. He bucked wildly in his climax, dropping Legolas on the bed and pushing into him.

They lay unmoving, their breath coming in sharp gasps. Legolas kissed him. Boromir kissed him back, his hands trembling. He feared what Legolas might say while their emotions were raw and inflamed by what they had done. He sought to keep Legolas silent with his tongue. Legolas pushed him away and held Boromir’s head in his hands, looking directly into his eyes. “Boromir, do you love me?”

Boromir hesitated. For months, he had refused to love Legolas. Had promised himself he would not, no matter how beautiful, brave, loyal, and glorious the Elf was . . .

“Yes, I love you.”

“I thought so.” Legolas smiled, and it was his old smile, touched with competitiveness, as if he had won a contest they were engaged in. “Why did it take you so long?” His smile turned smug and lazy.

Boromir found himself grinning. “It did not take long, and you know it.”

“It took long enough! I made a fool of myself, clutching at you at every opportunity.”

Boromir snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was I that clutched at you. I would have kept you stuffed into my bedroll, if I could.”

Legolas laughed. “When did you fall in love with me, then?” His eyes were soft and eager, making Boromir’s heart thud in his chest.

“I cannot say. It began before we left Rivendell. By the time we reached Caradhras, I was lost.”

Legolas nodded in agreement. “It began for me in Rivendell as well. When Elrohir kissed you, I was angry, and I did not know why. And when I found you with Elladan, I was angry with him, but, with you, I was furious. And yet I think that is when I began to love you, when you told me it was your fault, trying to protect the twins from my wrath.” He stroked Boromir’s hair idly. “And then you said you would withdraw from the Company for my sake.” He shook his head, as if still bewildered.

Boromir took his hand, stroking his palm. “Hush. Let us not speak of that.” The topic made him uncomfortable, as they approached the cause of the near disaster: Elrohir’s revelation to Boromir that the twins were like to him and Faramir, brothers who loved each other like lovers.

The three of them had had to tell Legolas everything, and the repelled look that had crossed Legolas’s face when Boromir had confessed he had lain with his brother . . . He stirred uneasily. Could Legolas truly love him?

Legolas pulled him close. “Boromir, I cannot judge you. For I have fallen in love with a Man. Not an Elf, not a woman. And I find that I cannot help it.”

Boromir smiled. “Love cannot be helped.”

They slept through what remained of the night in each other’s arms.

***

When they woke in the morning, Legolas led him to the baths, and afterwards they ate breakfast. Boromir took his hand to say farewell, but Legolas would not let go.

He followed Legolas back to the high talan, and, when his lover stripped off his clothing as soon as they reached the top of the ladder, Boromir waited no longer. Legolas yielded to him fully; strong muscles pliant under the satiny skin, teeth scraping his neck, hands exhorting and praising him. Yet more devastating were the cries of Legolas: sounds of desire, and need, and love.

***

A few days later, they were lying in bed, sated, stroking each other gently.

“Boromir, when I left Rivendell, I did not know how far I would go on this road. I must make a decision.”

Boromir looked at him sleepily. “Decision about what?’

“Do I continue to Minas Tirith, or do I return to Mirkwood? It lies close. When we set out from Rivendell, I planned to turn aside here and return to my home.”

“Oh,” Boromir said.

“Instead, I will come to Minas Tirith with you, if you wish it of me.”

“Of course I wish it of you! We will have such need of you! With you fighting at my side . . .”

Legolas laughed. “Boromir. I was not thinking only of _fighting_ at your side.” His face went still as Boromir did not answer. “Do you wish for me to come?”

“Yes,” Boromir said. Faramir will be there. How will he feel if I arrive with Legolas, and he sees that we are lovers? I will release Faramir from our bond, yet to do so while flaunting his replacement in front of him . . .

“You wish me there merely for my skill in battle,” Legolas said. His body retreated inch by inch until half a foot parted them.

Boromir did not speak. _Can you not pluck it from my mind? Our love may not last the leaving of this place, so dark is the future that lies before us. Do not make me say it!_

Legolas bowed his head for a long moment. He rose swiftly from the bed, seized some clothing, tugged it on, and then he was gone, leaping to the talan below in his haste. Boromir held a pillow tight in his arms and wept.

***

His companions said nothing to him of his absence when he returned to the pavilion. He wished to see Legolas again, for he knew with certainty -- too late -- that he wished for Legolas to come to Minas Tirith with him with all of his heart and soul.

Faramir would be hurt, yes, but Boromir had to let him go so his brother could find happiness. Legolas had said similar words before they left Rivendell, and Boromir knew it was true. He must let Faramir go. Legolas not coming to Minas Tirith would not postpone the day he and Faramir would have to part forever.

And yet he and Faramir had barely come together before he left for Rivendell. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the grim thoughts that overwhelmed him.

***

For several days, he wandered the woods alone, hoping to cross paths with Legolas. After Aragorn told him the Company would meet the next night to take council before leaving Lothlorien, he stopped his haphazard exploration and searched for Legolas in earnest, asking the way to his talan. He waited at the foot of the ladder for two hours, until Legolas appeared. His face was hard when he saw Boromir. He moved to the ladder and climbed it, not speaking to Boromir. Boromir followed him.

When they reached the living area, Boromir sat. Legolas sat down opposite him.

“Legolas, I have come to apologize. I desire, more than anything, that you come with me to Minas Tirith.” He suspected that Legolas had read much of his thought, and knew of his concern for Faramir. He did not wish to put it into words.

He looked down at the floor of the talan. A hand appeared before his face. He took Legolas’s hand and stood up.

“I shall come with you, Boromir. It is my place, I believe, to fight alongside Men in this coming war. Gimli and I shall follow Aragorn wherever he goes, as I know you will.”

“So we are friends . . . comrades in arms again?” Boromir said, hiding his pain.

“If that is what you wish,” Legolas said. He let go of Boromir’s hand.

“I will accept whatever you have to give,” Boromir said. Why, he asked himself desperately, had he let himself love? He was paying for it dearly.

Legolas stood, alert, in the stance Boromir had seen countless times, his hands ready for anything, his body poised for action.

“I have already given it to you,” Legolas said, his voice low, his eyes hot.

Boromir climbed the ladder to the sleeping platform, Legolas behind him. This time, there was no softness below Legolas’s skin. Boromir barely made it to the bed before Legolas claimed him.

***

The Company gathered late the next night in their pavilion. Boromir was swiftly frustrated as their talk dragged on.

There was no need for the discussion, in his mind. All of them had chosen their roads before they left Rivendell. Frodo would go to the Fire; Boromir and Aragorn would go to Minas Tirith. The rest of the Company would chose as they desired.

While Frodo would need companions on his journey, Aragorn could make that choice without their help. Aragorn was their leader; they would follow him. The hobbits knew little of the road ahead, and could not help them arrive at an agreement.

Of course, Boromir thought sourly, they would not be speaking endlessly of it if only Aragorn and Frodo would listen to him.

The entire Company should go to Minas Tirith, for there was no sense in approaching Mordor from the north or west; both approaches were heavily guarded, and there were the Dead Marshes to consider. Only from the south was there any hope of success, and that way led them first to Minas Tirith. There they could be resupplied, and Frodo could be given fitting company, perhaps some of Faramir’s trusted Rangers of Ithilien, for the dark road ahead.

Any other approach sent Frodo directly into the hands of the enemy. Yet the Company talked on late into the night, coming to no resolution.


	3. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shining One series from Rivendell to Amon Hen. Boromir falls into darkness, but at last finds the sun.

The next day, Celeborn’s gift of boats postponed one decision: which bank of the Anduin to travel upon.

When they took food and drink with Celeborn and Galadriel before their departure, Boromir found himself unexpectedly calm in their presence. Remote they seemed to him, sad and gentle. Galadriel did not enter his mind except for a few words so swift he thought for a moment it had not come from outside. _He shall find hope._ He did not know who “he” was, yet his heart was lightened.

***

The comfort did not last. The first night they spent on the river, Aragorn drew him aside.

“Only you and I know well the road that lies before us, Boromir,” Aragorn said. His face was shadowed in the darkness.

Boromir was immediately wary. “What are you saying, Aragorn?” he asked.

Aragorn looked at him sternly, his face resolute, his glance piercing. “I cannot let Frodo go alone into Mordor. You shall have to lead the company to Minas Tirith.”

Boromir sat down quickly, feeling as if all the breath had left his body. “You cannot do this,” he said, his voice unsteady. “You cannot reject our people, and throw your life away on this folly!”

“Boromir! It is not folly. It is our only hope of victory. I cannot command you in this, yet I desire your support.”

Boromir laughed harshly. “That is the trouble, Aragorn! You _can_ command me, but you will not! You hide from who you are!”

He stood and walked down the riverbank, needing to be alone with his thoughts, although thought was elusive in his unsettled state.

Abruptly, there was a crushing weight on his chest. His heart pounded as if it would escape. His breath died in his throat. He sank to his knees, grasping at the earth. A part of him, dispassionate, recognized his symptoms as terror. It had come from nowhere. It was too overwhelming at that moment to think on; he felt as if he might die.

As it failed to ease, the nightmarish minutes crawling past, he began to wish he would.

***

They slid past the bank of the Anduin for a week; each day the flicker of terror in him grew harder to fight down, to hide. At intervals, his hands sweated, his heart pounded, and he breathed hard through his mouth. Merry and Pippin were troubled, for they shared his boat.

After trying to ignore his fear, and failing, he sought to pin it down so that he could examine it. But there were too many fears.

He feared that Aragorn would flip his boat over and that he, Sam, and Frodo would drown. That they would be attacked from the eastern shore. That they would be crushed to bits in the rapids. That he would find Minas Tirith a smoking ruin. That Faramir was already dead.

So tense was he that it was a relief when the Orcs attacked as they approached the rapids at Sarn Gebir. At last there was something to do: row like mad to escape the arrows and the rapids.

Afterwards, their near brush with death lulled him with the heavy calm that follows battle. The Company had been menaced by some airborne devilry, which Legolas had shot down; almost, it reminded Boromir of . . . of what? He had seen Frodo sink to the ground, clutching his shoulder.

They slept that night in the boats, which they had lashed together. They discussed Legolas’s kill, and Gimli struck a chord with Boromir when he said that, whatever it was that had approached them through the air, it had reminded him of the Balrog.

“It was not a Balrog,” Frodo said, shivering. “It was something colder. I think it was . . .”

“What do you think?” Boromir asked, a terrifying thought coming to him. Frodo had touched his shoulder, in pain. Nazgul. _They are coming for him._

“I will not say,” Frodo said, not meeting Boromir’s eyes.

He knew! Boromir’s hands were wet and he could not get enough air into his lungs. Unwittingly or not, Frodo would betray them. The Nazgul had marked him, and they would find him.

The next day, he and Aragorn argued about the path they were taking. Aragorn wished to seek the portage way -- if it still existed -- and so pass the rapids, still following the Anduin south; Boromir wished to leave the river and cross Rohan directly to Minas Tirith. He grew so angry that for a moment he considered setting off alone; he could not, for the Company could not pass the portage way without his help in hauling the boats over the ground.

Aragorn took him aside, and Boromir steeled himself for whatever foul plan the ranger was about to spring upon him. “I shall look for the portage way with Legolas, Boromir. I need his keen eyesight; if we do not return, you must take leadership of the Company. I cannot risk you accompanying me, endangering both our lives.”

“You do not need to ask my permission, _ranger_ ,” Boromir said curtly. “Be not overlong.”

Aragorn gave him a curious glance. “We shall return as swiftly as we may, Boromir.”

“With Legolas at your side? I think not,” Boromir growled.

Aragorn was immediately enraged. “How dare you question my honor!” Aragorn grated out the words. His anger was gone just as swiftly. “Boromir, you know that I would never . . .”

“I know nothing, Aragorn,” Boromir said. _I can trust nothing. I can hope for nothing._

A pained look on his face, Aragorn stepped close to him. “Boromir, what troubles you so? How can I give you ease?”

Boromir smiled wolfishly as he considered telling Aragorn exactly how he could give him ease to see how the ranger would respond. _On your knees, ranger._

His gut fluttered. What was wrong with him? He had had a nearly overwhelming urge to strike Aragorn. His anger with Aragorn, with everyone, was out of proportion to what was happening. And yet it was not, for they were going to their deaths.

A tear rolled down his cheek and Aragorn brushed it away. “Is it about Faramir?” Aragorn asked, and such understanding and sympathy was in his eyes that Boromir trembled. He knows. He knows everything. He knew about Legolas. He knows that I want it . . .

“Your father?” Aragorn asked gently. “I know you fear for them. They have come to rely upon your strength. As have I.” He embraced Boromir, who allowed himself to be drawn against Aragorn’s chest. _He does not know._ He was relieved. And strangely disappointed.

***

At least one of Boromir’s fears was assuaged when Aragorn and Legolas returned after only two hours. Boromir surreptitiously checked Legolas’s back for twigs, Aragorn’s hair for leaves, and bit his lip. Where had his maddening jealousy come from? Legolas had given him no reason for it, nor had Aragorn. _Because he did not tell you_ , a voice inside him answered. _Why did Legolas not tell you that Aragorn was one of the men that desired him, that he has known Aragorn for many long years?_

When they arrived at Parth Galen, the rapids past, they were exhausted. Even Gimli was falling asleep on his feet.

Parth Galen was a fair place, the fairest they had been in since they had left Lórien. Boromir was not consoled by it. His heart descended further into his boots when Aragorn beckoned him with one finger. With dull dread, he followed Aragorn down the bank.

“Tomorrow, Boromir, it will be time to cross to the eastern shore,” Aragorn said. Boromir sat unmoving. He had a desire to cover his ears with his hands. “I have thought long on this; I shall go with Frodo, and take Sam and Gimli with me. You must lead the company on to Minas Tirith. We shall rejoin you there when our task is done.”

“When your task is _done_?” Boromir roared. “You shall not live to return, and you know it! Why will you not come to Minas Tirith with me, Aragorn? Why do you refuse the aid of Men? You were swift enough to accept aid from the Elves!”

“He was,” a voice said quietly. They turned to see Legolas approach. “I do not apologize for listening, for you made no attempt to hide your speech, Boromir.” Legolas’s face was sad and stern. “Aragorn is right. Tomorrow we must cross and aid the Ringbearer in his quest.”

“We?” Boromir said.

Legolas nodded. “I shall follow Frodo and Aragorn. It would be faithless to say farewell.”

“Go with him, then,” Boromir rasped. “Do not expect me to welcome you upon your return. For you shall not return.” He stamped off into the darkness.

The deathly terror was a relief as it overcame him, for it blotted out the memory of Legolas’s stricken face.

***

The next morning dawned fair and cool. The Company gathered on the bank of the Anduin, speaking in low voices. Boromir stayed away from them until the wait became unbearable. He knew what they were discussing; what route to take to Mordor after they crossed the river, and no doubt Merry and Pippin were arguing that they should be allowed to go with Frodo and Sam.

Frodo was not with them, and terror crept over him. Legolas explained that Frodo had gone for a short walk, to think things over. Boromir turned away when Legolas’s control over his emotions seemed about to break, the hard line of his mouth softening.

Frodo gone for a stroll? What madness was that? Here on a frontier of war, a lone hobbit, with the Nazgul hunting him, wandering alone! He set off up the hill, easily following Frodo’s distinctive footprints on the path up to Amon Hen.

He sighed with relief when he caught up to Frodo near to the Seat of Seeing. It was safe. And he had a chance, away from Aragorn’s persuasiveness, to convince Frodo not to walk into death.

His self absorption cracked for a moment when he perceived Frodo’s fear. The Halfling was struggling to gather his courage to cross the river and go to Mordor. And it was all so unnecessary!

“If you came with me to Minas Tirith, Frodo, you would not need to suffer this,” Boromir said softly. “It is your good sense that cries out against this plan.” Frodo took the words impassively, and Boromir tried another tack. “They will come upon you in the wild, Frodo. They will take it.” He was satisfied at the terror that flared in Frodo’s eyes for a moment. Then Frodo mastered himself.

“Aragorn would not lead me astray,” Frodo said, his voice shaky.

“Would he not?” Boromir said harshly. “You nearly died on Caradhras, and Gandalf fell in Moria, all because Aragorn would not risk the Gap of Rohan. If we had come that way, we would be in my city by now! You would not face this evil choice.”

Frodo’s face was touched with doubt.

“Come to Minas Tirith, Frodo,” Boromir said gently. “Aragorn is a good man, yes, but he is not infallible. Indeed, I fear for him, for he has been strangely willful of late. Gandalf’s death has affected him, more than it should. He grows desperate, and thinks only desperate measures will serve.”

Frodo looked up at him. Boromir could not tell what he was thinking.

“And I fear that Aragorn has abandoned the cause of men,” Boromir said, anger in his voice. “He will not come to Minas Tirith, to claim the throne of Gondor. He will let me return alone, to hold back the tide of Mordor! The Dark Lord has unleashed his forces upon us once, and that was merely a taste of what is in store for us. Aragorn has said he will not come.”

Frodo paled. “What do you mean, Boromir?”

“Has he not told you? He plans to accompany you to Mordor, taking with him Gimli and Sam.” He wondered what they had wasted so much breath on, down on the bank of the Anduin. They must have spoken only of their route.

“Sam!” Frodo said, and his fear was plain to see.

Ah, Boromir thought. The Halfling knows he goes to his death, and he can master the fear of that, but not the death of his friend.

“And Legolas,” Boromir added. “And I suppose Merry and Pippin, if they will not come with me to Gondor.” Boromir saw with satisfaction that Frodo’s chin trembled. The Halfling turned away from him for a moment.

Boromir spoke soothingly of the future as he saw it. Frodo would come to Minas Tirith, all of the company following him, not risking their lives on a fool’s errand. And when the enemy came, he would be beaten back, for Boromir would have the strength to defeat him!

Frodo looked at him warily.

“I have need of your ring, Frodo, I do not deny it,” Boromir said rapidly. “Aragorn has abandoned his birthright; he will not aid me. With him, our hope was dim; without him, it is non-existent. With your ring, I can defeat Mordor! And if Aragorn will not claim the kingship, then I . . .”

His voice died away as repulsion crossed Frodo’s face. Boromir was incensed. _Why should I not be king? I am as high-born as Aragorn, if not more . . ._

He needed to take the ring, and quickly, before Frodo left him. The hobbit was backing away from him. Into his mind came the horrible image of Frodo slain, and the ring in his hand, and he laughed, for he understood at last it was a lie of the Elves; he had no need to use force against the Halfling. He could take the ring from Frodo as easily as he had carried Frodo in his arms.

He lunged for Frodo. Frodo vanished.

He thought his overwrought nerves were playing tricks, then understood Frodo had put the ring on. Frodo would give them the ring; it was as he had seen it!

“You shall betray us!” Boromir cried, running to and fro, looking for a sign of the invisible Halfing. The ground rushed up to smack his face.

***

He touched the leaves on the ground, letting them fall through his fingers. Where was he? What had happened? The Halfling . . . he had badly frightened him. “Frodo?” he said, his voice weak.

He rose shakily. His face was wet with tears. Madness. The ring had driven him mad.

He turned swiftly at a noise down the slope. Orcs, and the piping voices of the Halflings. No time. He drew his sword and ran.

***

It was over. The Orc approached him, fitting another arrow into his bow, then drew the bow up, aiming at his eye. It was important to the Orc that his body be disfigured, to insure his family would suffer not only grief but horror as well.

The Orc was drawing the moment out as long as possible, hoping for Boromir to beg for mercy. That would not happen.

They had taken Merry and Pippin. Had Frodo escaped? Had his madness destroyed the whole Company? Had the Orcs slaughtered them?

Get on with it. An arrow in my left eye, then one in my right. Slit my throat. Eat my flesh. It is no matter to me. I have failed.

It had passed through his mind swiftly, even as he battled the Orcs: he had been under the ring’s spell since Rivendell. It had consumed him and twisted him in ways he had not even fathomed.

He could see it clearly with the ring gone, beyond his grasp. He was free of it, and, even in that dark hour, he had joy at the thought. Free. The thoughts he had accused Galadriel of putting in his mind -- they were his own thoughts. She had merely forced him to look at them. It had done him no good, for he had refused to see.

The Orc was ready to release the arrow. Boromir’s death would be instantaneous, once the arrow struck his eye. He felt little pain, although his lungs could not draw enough air, and he was freezing cold. He was ready for it to end.

Helplessly, he watched as the arrow was cut down by Aragorn. _Please, Aragorn, do not do this! For the Valar’s sake, do not waste your blood on me!_

He crawled, collapsing against a tree. He would not move again. All was quiet once more. Aragorn stood over him, his eyes wild, his face covered with red blood. Great gouts of black Orc blood stained his clothing.

“They have taken the little ones,” Boromir said. The effort it cost him to speak reminded him he must choose his words carefully. There would be few. “Forgive me. I tried to take the ring from Frodo.”

His relief was immense when Aragorn told him Frodo had escaped. His madness had not, perhaps, ruined them.

Merry and Pippin . . . his madness had cost them their lives. Or had it? His madness might have saved them; perhaps they would all have fallen to the Orcs, if they had not been scattered upon the hillside when the Orcs arrived. There are other forces at work . . .

Why had the sorceress let him go on with the fellowship, after she had seen the darkness in his mind? _I have been sacrificed, like Mithrandir. Not all I did shall come to evil, for Aragorn shall go to Minas Tirith, not perish in Mordor. And Legolas and Gimli. The Halflings . . . Aragorn, you must go after Merry and Pippin._

Aragorn sought to examine his wounds, to heal him, almost drawing a smile from Boromir. _Aragorn, you are a mighty warrior, but your heart is mightier._ Not even Lord Elrond could save him now.

Aragorn wept over him when Boromir told him to let the arrows be. He had only a few words left in him. He struggled to get them out. “I would have followed you, my brother,” Boromir said. “My captain. My king.”

No more words would come.

He looked up at the tree branches arching over his head, and thought of the day he and Legolas lay on the grass in Rivendell, their faces skyward. Legolas saw the Great Ones in the living wood overhead, while Boromir saw only trees.

Now a light dazzled him through the leaves. It grew brighter, closer. He smiled.

_I see what you see, Legolas. More than trees._

***

The End

***

Beta Reader: RiverOtter  



	4. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shining One series from Rivendell to Amon Hen. Boromir falls into darkness, but at last finds the sun.

Beta: RiverOtter, who loves Boromir as much as I do.

**Chapter One Notes**

Used “youthful” Legolas as theorized by Michael Martinez:

http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/36517

Legolas a furnace: for some reason, I decided Elves were warm. Furnaces existed in Middle-earth, not for heating but for metal working.

Talagan, King Thranduil's seneschal  
Borrowed from Dragon Fever by Elfscribe

Legolas calling himself a Wood-elf: a term Tolkien used for the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood.

_. . . though there were some among them still old enough to remember the Fell Winter._ Boromir is a bit wrong here; only Bilbo was that old.

Thanks to SailingToByzantium for her suggestion concerning Boromir I.

Legolas knows all about werewolves from Dwim’s story _Roots_  
http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=26

Legolas’s Silvan blood: Whether Legolas was Silvan, rather than Sindarin, is murky. But we do know he speaks the Silvan dialect, and seems to identify with the Silvan Elves, referring to “us of the silvan folk” in FotR.

_Their final night outside the mines had been disturbed by the howling of wolves._ Well, the wolves did more than howl in the book, and did less than howl in the movie, so I’ve compromised.

_Boromir chose a resting place outside the guardroom, for the open well in it disturbed him._ Actually, the well bugged one of the hobbits. Just borrowing a fear here.

**Chapter Two Notes**

The friendship between Gandalf and Faramir; I reference this fan fiction for the timing.  
 _In His Brother's Shadow_ by Celandine Brandybuck  
http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=119

**Chapter Three Notes**

The Elves of Lorien seem to have learned bathing techniques from Japan: a shower for cleaning, a tub for soaking. I have no idea how this happened.

_This residence was built for Thranduil, my father, though he has not been here for many long years._ I have no idea if Thranduil ever went to Lorien. It just seemed cool to embarrass Legolas with a fancy house.

**Chapter Four Notes**

_I have thought long on this; I shall go with Frodo, and take Sam and Gimli with me._ This is the plan Aragorn comes up with the next day while he waits for Frodo to screw up his courage. I’ve imagined here that he tells Boromir of it the night before, adding to his fears.

Relevant book quotes:

_“Boromir, O Boromir! What did she say to you, the Lady who dies not? What did she see? What woke in your heart then? Why went you ever to Laurelindorenan, and came not by your own road, upon the horses of Rohan riding home in the morning?”_  
Faramir, TTT, Chapter 5, The Window on the West

Story Timeline:

12/25/3018 Leave Rivendell  
01/08/3019 Reach Hollin  
01/13/3019 Enter Moria at nightfall  
01/14/3019 Night in Hall Twenty-one  
01/15/3019 The bridge of Khazad-Dum; exit Moria at mid day  
01/17/3019 Arrive at Caras Galadhon  
02/14/3019 Mirror of Galadriel  
02/16/3019 Farewell to Lorien  
02/23/3019 Boats are attacked at Sarn Gebir [Legolas shoots Nazgul’s mount]  
02/25/3019 Pass the Argonath and camp that night at Parth Galen  
02/26/3019 Breaking of the Fellowship

Since I started this tale back in October of 2003, mucho encouragement was given by the Filthy Man Club at libraryofmoria.com.

Isabeau, Altariel, and Dwimordene encouraged me simply by writing well.

And thanks to Carla Jane, who first showed me how lovely LOTR fan fiction could be.

This series is continued in “Dreams of Hope” and “Twenty Years Wiser.”

It is preceded by “Shining One,” “Riderless,” “Roads Forgotten,” and “The Free Lords of the Free.”

http://www.livejournal.com/users/stewardess_lotr/


	5. The Black Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shining One series from Rivendell to Amon Hen. Boromir falls into darkness, but at last finds the sun.

In the dark of Moria, the ordeal of Caradhras seemed a pleasant interlude. Boromir recalled the sunlight on the snow and Legolas’s arm around his shoulders as if it were an event in the distant past, not one day before.

Aragorn marched behind him, bringing up the rear. Legolas was before him. The four hobbits were together in the middle, Mithrandir and Gimli leading the Company.

They had marched for hours since the near disaster at the gate. Boromir no longer knew if it was day or evening, as they marched in endless night.

At last they halted to rest. By luck of the draw, it was a night Boromir was not on watch, and he dropped heavily to the hard ground. He had lost one of his two blankets when they entered Moria; not that he really needed it, for the air was stuffy and warm. Yet he wanted it as a barrier from this place. He had a desire to pull his blanket over his head.

Legolas lay down beside him, on his back, staring into the blackness above. There was strain around Legolas’s eyes as he looked up into nothingness, where he would have seen the sky.

Boromir sensed the cause. “You cannot sleep. There are no stars. No trees.”

Legolas turned to him. “And no wind, nor sun, nor moon,” Legolas said. “I have not slept since Hollin. Three days ago.” Their final night outside the mines had been disturbed by the howling of wolves.

“Will you be all right?” Boromir asked. He could barely see Legolas in the dim light. Mithrandir and Frodo were on watch, the wizard’s pipe glowing red, his staff faintly glimmering white.

“Yes. We will be out of Moria in two days.”

“You cannot even sing,” Boromir said mournfully.

Legolas smiled. “You do not usually enjoy my singing. You are correct, I cannot risk it.” He rolled close to Boromir. “I shall listen to you breathe.”

Boromir laughed. “And that will help you find rest?”

“Perhaps,” Legolas said. They fell silent. The passage split into three, and Mithrandir did not know which way to go yet. There was a guardroom nearby, where the Company had settled to sleep. There were also innumerable stairs and doorways and nooks and crannies . . .

Boromir chose a resting place outside the guardroom, for the open well in it disturbed him. He was in what would be called a corridor anywhere else, although it was far too vast for such a tidy name. In it, he found a niche that protected him on three sides.

Legolas laid his hand over Boromir’s heart.

“No wind and no sun, but there is your pulse and your breath,” Legolas whispered into Boromir’s ear. At the breath in his ear, Boromir’s cock hardened. He pulled away; Legolas slid close to him again, his lips brushing Boromir’s ear.

“Careful,” Boromir whispered. “My neck.” Even the lightest touch on his neck aroused him. And a mouth . . .

Legolas’s lips touched his neck. “What is wrong with your neck?” Legolas asked, his breath ticklish. Boromir had no need to speak, for his body answered. His chin tilted up, his back arched, and he grunted softly. He heard a sound of amusement from Legolas.

Legolas licked his neck. Boromir gasped.

“Salt,” Legolas said thoughtfully. “It tastes good,” he added, sounding surprised. He licked Boromir’s neck again.

“Legolas! Not my neck!” Boromir whispered, even as he leaned his head back to expose as much of it as possible. He clutched Legolas hard when the Elf sucked and licked his neck in earnest, his tongue making long smooth strokes.

Boromir fought back a moan. “Stop, or I’ll wake everyone!” He grasped Legolas’s shoulders and pulled him closer, contradicting his words.

“You will be my wind, Boromir,” Legolas said. “My sun.” He stroked Boromir’s golden hair.

Boromir was staggered, understanding that, at least for this one night, Legolas would touch him, not as a friend. He held Legolas’s shoulders, trying to kiss him. Legolas pulled away.

“You will do it my way, Boromir,” Legolas whispered. “And you will have to be quiet.”

“Of course, of course!” Boromir agreed, not caring what conditions Legolas placed on him.  
  
Legolas whispered low in Boromir’s ear, “Follow me.” Boromir stood and Legolas gathered up their cloaks, blankets, and clothing, then put his hand on Boromir’s back and pushed him forward.

“I cannot see,” Boromir whispered, dreading one of the bottomless ravines they had come across. Legolas took his hand and pulled him along. They did not go far, only down the corridor to another small niche like the one Boromir had found. Legolas arranged their cloaks, blankets, and clothes to make a soft surface, and Boromir lay down.

“First,” Legolas whispered. “You must be absolutely still. You will not move; I shall move you.” Boromir tried to kiss him. Legolas put two fingers over his lips and pushed him back. “Not even that. You will not even move your mouth.”

“All right,” Boromir whispered, though he was puzzled.

“Second: you will not speak. You must not make a sound.”

Boromir nodded his head, not sure if Legolas could see him in the darkness, for he could see nothing. Legolas lay next to him, then Legolas’s fingers were on his face. Boromir opened his mouth so that he could suck on a finger, then remembered not to move and closed it.

The tips of Legolas’s left index finger and thumb touched his jaw, right at the hinge, and squeezed. Boromir’s mouth opened. He nearly laughed as he understood how literally Legolas meant for him not to move. He forced his body to relax further. Legolas put a hand on Boromir’s shoulder and pulled him onto his side, then lay down to face him. He placed both thumbs on Boromir’s chin, pulling his mouth open wider, then leaned in to kiss him.

I suppose I cannot move my tongue, Boromir thought. He was having trouble staying still. Legolas’s body was close to his but not close enough. He wanted to thrust his hips forward.

Legolas’s tongue entered his mouth, followed by two fingers, which held Boromir’s mouth open. The triple invasion made Boromir’s groin blaze. If Legolas had described it to him, he would have thought it absurd; the reality of Legolas controlling his mouth was unexpectedly stimulating. He relaxed his body completely, which forced Legolas to move his right hand to support Boromir’s head. Legolas grunted with satisfaction.

Perhaps this is one of Legolas’s tortures for Men, Boromir thought: Legolas’s plan was to make Boromir scream with pleasure and wake up the Fellowship in the middle of the night. _First he will strip me naked._ No sooner had he thought it than Legolas released his mouth, slowly pulling out his tongue and fingers, and undressed him.

Considering that he kept his body completely limp, Legolas did a fine job, Boromir reflected. Trickiest was his mail shirt, a padded tunic reinforced with chain mail, which had to be drawn off over his head. Legolas managed it, first pulling Boromir’s arms up straight above his head, then slowly rolling the mail shirt up.

Legolas left Boromir in his breeches and boots. Boromir felt Legolas moving against him, and Boromir cursed his luck: Legolas was undressing in front of him for the first time where there was no light to see him by, and Boromir could not reach his hands out to touch him.

Legolas’s fingers touched his face again, opening his mouth. Instead of Legolas’s tongue or fingers, Boromir tasted leather. He bit on it; it was thick, a strap, or a scabbard for a small knife.

“That will help you stay silent,” Legolas said. Boromir was about to complain, as he would not be kissed again, not with that strap in his mouth. He was silenced when Legolas traced his fingers slowly over Boromir’s chest, touching every inch of it, except for his nipples. When Legolas finally slid fingertips over his nipples after long minutes of teasing, Boromir bit down hard.

“Good,” Legolas whispered in his ear. “You are doing well. It will become more difficult.”

Boromir smiled around the gag; he knew a threat when he heard one. Legolas’s tongue flicked his nipples, first one, then the other. This went on for longer than Boromir thought prudent. He was desperate to undo the front of his breeches, his erection aching.

Legolas abandoned the soft touches and sucked hard on Boromir’s nipple, his fingers twisting the other. Boromir’s hips jerked up before he could stop. “That was the first time you moved, so I shall let it pass,” Legolas whispered. “Do not do it again.”

Boromir bit down on the strap and breathed hard through his nose to calm himself; in vain, as Legolas switched to using his teeth gently.

_Not being able to move is difficult. Not being able to make a sound is difficult. Put the two together and it is nigh impossible._ If he could move, even a little, the moan building up inside him would be relieved.

Legolas tugged off his boots and breeches while Boromir struggled not to help. He was reassured by the sound of Legolas also stripping completely. Perhaps humiliation, of the Lord Gundor variety, was not in his future after all.

The strong hands were back, and he fought not to arch up into the touch. Legolas was kneeling at his side, gently running his hands all over Boromir’s skin, touching everything except his cock. Boromir thought of the sequence of events regarding his nipples -- no touching, light touching, tongue, then teeth -- and audibly chewed on the strap in his mouth.

“You are having trouble,” Legolas whispered. “I would expect a Man to have trouble controlling himself.”

Ha! Boromir would see about that. He went limp -- except for his turgid cock -- and embedded his teeth in the strap.

The hands were circling closer. A finger gently stroked his erection. Boromir grinned in triumph when Legolas’s hand hesitated, then enclosed him, touching him with unabashed curiosity. _What had he expected to find under my breeches_? Two hands were on him, one under his balls, lifting them, seeming to weigh him, then both hands wrapped around his cock in an appraising fashion. “There is plenty for you there,” Boromir thought with satisfaction, although he was sure the evening would not end with Legolas under him.

As he could not move or make a sound, all of his tension was expressed in his breathing. If Legolas had sincerely desired wind, he was getting it, for Boromir’s chest rose and fell heavily, and he made a loud huffing through his nose and around the gag.

He smiled to himself: Legolas was cutting a step short. Legolas’s hot breath wafted on his stomach, then Boromir was licked slowly. He fought for control. If he came all over Legolas’s hair, he would never hear the end of it. _Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Don’t soak Legolas’s locks with your seed._ He thought of weapons inventories, and duty rosters, and the average number of miles per day he had traversed from Minas Tirith to Rivendell.

It did not help, for he thought of Eomer, and of Elrohir. And Hallas and Halbarad . . . he had had many lovers since leaving Gondor.

He had not been celibate in Gondor, taking a new lover once or twice a year, sleeping with him only a few times, then ending it. He had learned that, if he spent too much time with his casual lovers, they were eventually crushed when he did not return love. For he could not, as he was already in love with someone else. _With Faramir. Whom you cannot have. Whom you must let go._

Only after leaving Gondor had Boromir seen that he had been largely alone all his life. Each year, he spent only a few short weeks with a lover. The stress of leading Gondor’s army, his lack of privacy, and the need to keep his lovers at a distance: all forced him into solitude. When he left Gondor, leaving those restrictions behind, he had taken five lovers in as many months!

The strap stifled his groan as Legolas gently scraped teeth along his cock.

Legolas’s hand slid under him to stroke the cleft of his buttocks. Boromir lifted his hips, unthinking. Legolas nipped his belly warningly. _Ah. The second time I moved._

Boromir’s teeth almost met through the gag when Legolas slowly slid his mouth over him, taking him in entirely. Boromir’s hips jerked up and he received another warning bite, right on his cock. The bite was not painful; it did not need to be, for the threat of teeth there was undeniably menacing.

While Boromir had dominated his lovers in the past, he was a greenhorn compared to Legolas; nothing would happen unless Legolas willed it.

Legolas gently rolled him over. He lay on top of Boromir and at last Boromir felt Legolas’s erection, pressed against his lower back. He forgot about proving that Men could control themselves as well as the next Elf, and raised his hips so that Legolas slid down, his erection nestling between Boromir’s buttocks. Legolas bit his shoulder hard. Boromir slumped flat again.

Legolas moved down, parted Boromir’s buttocks, and his tongue made a slow pass. Boromir had a brief moment of thankfulness that he had stayed clean on the journey. Only he, Legolas, and Frodo made regular use of a bucket and towel. He let out a harsh breath around the gag and clenched his fists. It was not possible to stay still. Not possible. _What happens if I do not stay still? A bite, and a bite there would be bad . . ._

Just as he thought the situation could not become less bearable, it did. Legolas released his hair from its ties, spilling it over Boromir’s back, buttocks, and thighs, tickling and stroking him. He gnawed the leather viciously. It was difficult to swallow, so much of his saliva ran out of his mouth. A large wet spot was forming on the blanket under his head.

Legolas rolled him over again, onto his back, spreading his legs apart. Gently he brushed greased fingers below Boromir. Boromir exhaled so sharply the gag almost flew out of his mouth. Legolas took one of Boromir’s hands and drew it to him, so that Boromir could touch Legolas’s slick erection, rubbing against the palm of his hand.

By the Valar, the Elf was cruel, letting him know what was in store for him! How were they going to accomplish it if Boromir could not move? Perhaps Legolas would put something under his hips to raise him?

He did not; instead Legolas grasped Boromir’s ankles, lifted his legs, and pushed them back and apart, holding Boromir’s legs up, spread. Boromir’s knees would have touched his chest, but they were off to the side of his body. The stretch in his inner thighs ached pleasantly.

This, Boromir thought, would work well, as his legs were completely out of the way, and Legolas could move his body exceedingly close . . .

Without a hint of fumbling, Legolas was pressing into him, even though it was dark and he was unable to use his hands.

Boromir was desperate for fulfillment. And Legolas was moving slowly. Slowly. He pushed all the way in, and it took several minutes -- or so it seemed to Boromir. Legolas pulled out, and it took even longer. Then in again, and hours and hours went by. Boromir chewed frantically on the gag. Too slow!

There was one brief moment during each inward thrust when he experienced a faint shadow of the pleasure he would have, if Legolas moved at a faster pace, and he was desperate to prolong that moment, bring the moments closer together . . . He had never been teased so mercilessly in his life. He would not take any more of it!

Boromir spit the gag out. “Have me, or not, Legolas!” Boromir growled.

Legolas laughed, then moved fast, gripping Boromir’s ankles hard. Boromir instantly forgave Legolas for every moment of delay. He bit back a shriek, scrambling his hands in the blankets for the gag, replacing it in his mouth.

He stretched his hands out to Legolas. Legolas leaned forward and pulled the gag out of Boromir’s mouth with his teeth. Their tongues fought. Boromir could touch him at last and did, his hands stroking Legolas’s back, hair, buttocks, thighs, arms . . . and meanwhile he was pounded relentlessly.

His body trembled and sweated. He sank his teeth into Legolas’s shoulder to stop his cries of pleasure. Legolas let go of his ankles and braced himself on his elbows so he could move hard and fast. Boromir clung to him, wrapping his legs around Legolas’s waist, his arms around Legolas’s neck. Legolas raised himself up on his hands and knees, lifting Boromir off the ground, who hung on him like a drowning man clinging to a raft. The position seemed unpromising, not giving Legolas the ability to move against him, yet Legolas was accomplishing it anyway, rocking back and forth sharply on his knees. Their bodies tight together, Boromir’s erection rubbed against Legolas’s hard abdomen. The always pristine Elf was slick with Boromir’s sweat and the juices that flowed out of his cock, paving the way for his seed.

“Hold on,” Legolas panted into his neck.

Literally and figuratively, Boromir thought. I must hold on. I’m not going to last. I’m going to fall . . . and come. His grip was loosening, his arms and legs tingling, as if he were about to lose sensation in them.

“Can’t,” Boromir said. Not for much longer. Legolas leaned back until he was nearly sitting back on his heels, tilting Boromir up, and grasped Boromir’s erection with one hand. His other arm circled Boromir’s waist. He thrust up into Boromir, raising himself using his leg muscles. “His legs are strong,” Boromir thought; the thought was gone in a flash, driven out by sensation.

He gripped Legolas’s shoulders and threw his head back, his thighs clamped on Legolas’s torso. Legolas’s thrusts were hitting him with just the right amount of force, at exactly the right time, and on precisely the right spot . . . there. There!

An embarrassingly high pitched sound burst from Boromir’s mouth. He soaked Legolas’s belly and chest with his seed. Legolas slid his hands to Boromir’s hips, gripped him tightly, pushed him down onto his back, and took him hard. After a few formidable thrusts, Legolas paused, shuddered, pushed . . . another shudder, another push . . . and again. Legolas fell on top of him, breathing fast. He kissed Boromir’s mouth.

“I had you singing,” Legolas whispered. Boromir considered thumping the Elf hard, but could not move his arms and legs; his climax had left him temporarily paralyzed. He settled for pushing his tongue into Legolas’s mouth. Legolas climbed off him and wiped them dry with something soft, perhaps a pair of leggings. He handed Boromir a water flask, then took a long drink after Boromir.

“So,” Boromir said, when he could speak again, “I suppose your Elvish lovers stayed quiet?” Although he had not been paying close attention, he recalled that Legolas had made a number of gasps, grunts, and moans.

“No,” Legolas said. He helped Boromir put his breeches back on, put on his own, and covered them with their cloaks. He wrapped his arms around Boromir. “Not one stayed silent.”

“Then you knew I would fail!”

“That’s part of the fun,” Legolas said smugly. “When you beg.” He put his lips to Boromir’s ear and whispered in imitation of Boromir’s deeper voice: “Have me, or not, Legolas!”

Boromir pummeled him. They rolled about until they were tangled in the blankets and cloaks. Not able to move, they kissed instead.

“Stay with me,” Boromir said.

“Are you sure of this, Boromir?” Legolas whispered.

“Yes. Please.” That is the way it is in this world, Boromir thought sadly. A man will take you so hard you cannot remember your own name, but to show affection, especially before others, that you have to beg for. His voice hardening a little, Boromir whispered, “Do you have the courage for that?”

“It is not a matter of courage,” Legolas said. “It is a matter of our fellowship. If we cleave to each other, it is a rejection of them, whether we wish it or no.”

Their bodies were touching full length, Legolas’s arm under Boromir, so that Boromir’s head rested on his shoulder. Legolas clasped his hands together so his embrace was tight around Boromir’s body.

“I know,” Boromir said. “For tonight, I want this.” He waited for Legolas to reply. “Legolas?”

The Elf was asleep.

***

When Boromir woke, Legolas was gone from his side, leaving him with a stinging sense of loss. Reluctantly, he acknowledged that he craved Legolas’s company. As they marched through Moria, with Aragorn behind him and Legolas before him, it was not the light from Mithrandir’s staff that Boromir followed, but the light that surrounded Legolas; he was a star unseen until utter darkness fell.

The day’s march was uneventful. They came to a broad road and made good time. All of their hearts were cheered when they came to the cavernous hall where they would spend the night, for the air was no longer close and foul; unfortunately, the fresh air brought with it the chill of winter.

Without discussion, they settled together in a corner, lying side by side, their bodies touching to hold in warmth. Legolas lay to Boromir’s left, Aragorn to his right. Gimli was across their feet. Pippin and Mithrandir were on watch, so they had the faint illumination of the wizard’s staff. The hobbits slept the way they always slept, with Sam and Merry on the outside, Frodo on the inside. When Pippin was off watch, he would settle between Frodo and Merry. The hobbits had not varied from this pattern for the whole of the trip.

They did that night. When Pippin’s watch ended, he lay between Aragorn and Boromir.

Boromir was still awake. Though he knew they would be out of Moria by the end of the coming day, his dread was growing. He reflected on the grim irony of their presence in Moria; going through the Gap of Rohan, close to Orthanc, would have had its dangers, but going through Moria? It was beyond hazardous, a foolish and desperate gamble. So far they had been saved by Moria’s vastness; there were Orcs here, and probably trolls, but their paths had not yet crossed.

He looked at Pippin and smiled. He had initially regarded the hobbits as youthful, nearly children, and it had taken him some time to understand they were men by the standards of their own people. Yet he could not eradicate the protective feeling he had for them, for they needed him.

Pippin’s eyes were open, staring at him.

“Go to sleep, Master Took,” Boromir whispered.

“I cannot sleep,” Pippin said. His expression was full of distress, or regret, or something else . . .

Boromir suppressed a laugh. The hobbit was looking at him with the woeful face of the unrequited lover!

There was little humor in it, he concluded swiftly, as far as Pippin was concerned, for nothing could come of it. All his life, Boromir had been drawn to only one kind of man: warlike and strong. He was no more attracted to the hobbit than he was to a woman. Indeed, he thought he might prefer a woman to a hobbit. There was no point in telling Pippin of that, as the hobbit would be crushed. And surely he did not expect Boromir to act upon his longing . . .

“Perhaps you need a good night kiss,” Boromir whispered. A smile stole onto his face as Pippin’s eyes grew round. He moved close to Pippin and gave him a brief kiss on the lips, making it wet and messy, although he did not open his mouth. Pippin turned red and closed his eyes. “Sleep well, Pippin,” Boromir whispered.

After a pause, Pippin whispered back. “Thank you, Boromir.”

Boromir smiled, thinking he had condemned the hobbit to no sleep for the rest of the night. Fortunately, he was wrong. Pippin rolled closer and was soon snoring gently.

***

Boromir was still a child when he perceived his father’s dislike of Mithrandir. A meddler, Denethor had called the wizard. Several years were to pass before Boromir had cause to question the harsh epithet.

It was Faramir who first doubted Denethor’s appraisal; as Faramir was then a lad of eight, Boromir had scoffed gently. Harder to ignore was Faramir at age fourteen, when a visit from Mithrandir to delve into the archives in Minas Tirith laid the foundation for a firm friendship between his brother and the wizard. Faramir had said much in defense of Mithrandir at the time, but it had not been his brother’s words which had swayed Boromir; Mithrandir respected, perhaps even loved, his brother, and Boromir could find little fault, wizard or no, with any who recognized Faramir’s worth.

In Rivendell, however, he had learned Mithrandir’s true nature, learning at the same time that his father’s judgment of Mithrandir was as mistaken as his judgment of Faramir. Mithrandir was no meddler; he was the driving force behind the events that were shaping the fortunes of Middle-earth.

Boromir did not think the wizard infallible, however. Mithrandir’s refusal to take the route south through the Gap of Rohan had been, in Boromir’s opinion, a mistake.

A mistake the wizard paid for with his life.

As he ran from the broken bridge with Frodo in his arms, shouting for Aragorn to follow, Boromir’s grief for the wizard cut through him sharply. He had come to understand that they needed Mithrandir desperately in the days ahead; their hope dimmed without him.

He came out of Moria, and the sun was high, yet the light had no power to brighten the day, as if it stopped short of his eyes, leaving him in darkness. He held Gimli, restraining him, as he had comforted the Dwarf as he stood beside his kinsman’s tomb.

The hobbits were on the ground, weeping with abandonment. Boromir struggled not to weep with them, gripping Gimli hard. When Frodo turned, and he saw the utter despair on the young hobbit’s face, something twisted inside him. The hobbits should not experience such horror, and it was only going to get worse with every mile south.

He turned to Legolas, hoping that the Elf would lift his heart as always, but Legolas’s light was hidden, diminished; he looked down at the ground as if he hoped to find an answer there. Legolas had saved his life as they fled the Chamber of Records, seizing him before he fell into a pit; it mattered not. In the brief and horrific slaughter, they had all saved each other countless times, with every sword thrust and every arrow that flew.

They followed Aragorn towards the hazy wood ahead, almost at a run. It was not long before Frodo and Sam stumbled and nearly fell. Both had been injured in the melee inside Moria. Legolas cried out to Aragorn to halt, but they could not stop yet. Boromir and Aragorn would have to carry the hobbits for a while.

Boromir walked towards Sam. Before he reached him, Frodo was standing before him, his arms raised. Boromir picked him up without saying a word. For a moment, he simply stood, his face buried in Frodo’s hair. He thought Frodo sobbed once. Then they were running again.

He was surprised; since Rivendell, Frodo had preferred Aragorn’s company. Boromir did not blame the hobbit for that; Frodo had known Aragorn better and longer. However, since the bleak night on Caradhras, Boromir saw that Frodo regarded him with the same affection he showed Aragorn. It was bitter comfort, and yet he treasured it, for he had feared that he had lost the trust of Frodo permanently on the slopes of Caradhras, when he had picked up the Ring after Frodo had dropped it.

In the eaves of the forest, beside a stream, they halted so Aragorn could tend to Sam and Frodo’s wounds. The Company had a brief laugh when Frodo’s mithril vest was revealed; Boromir marveled that they could laugh at all. Some of his darkness lifted. The relief did not last.

Aragorn stripped Frodo from the waist up to bathe the enormous bruise made by the troll’s spear. Boromir’s gaze was caught by the wound on Frodo’s shoulder, the wound made by the Morgul-knife. He was both repelled and fascinated by it. The wound was three months old, he reckoned, yet it was still ugly and raw.

He remembered Pippin’s words. _It will never really heal._ Darkness fell over him again.


End file.
